Cuts and Scrapes

Posted on Tue Jun 24th, 2025 @ 2:39am by Sergeant Jace Morven & Lieutenant JG Mieta

1,925 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: Early 2389

The thud of movement echoed off the padded walls, a flurry of footwork and sharp, timed strikes. Sergeant Jace Morven moved like a metronome: tight, efficient, precise.

Private R’Valla wasn’t as precise, but no less effective. The Caitian’s strikes came fast, coiled with playful energy. She circled him lightly, tail flicking. “You going easy on me, Sarge?” she grinned. “Feels like you’re trying not to bruise the furniture.”

Jace didn’t reply. Just shifted his stance, adjusted.

Then R’Valla lunged. Not wild, not reckless, just too eager.

Her claws weren’t fully retracted.

There was the sound: a soft, wet tear. A thin, hot line opened along Jace’s upper arm. He stepped back instantly. Not flinching...just stopping. Deliberate.

R’Valla’s ears flattened. “Kah’ta, shit. Sorry. That wasn’t-” She lifted her hands. “Reflexes, I didn’t mean...are you-”

“I’m fine,” Jace said. Quiet. Flat. But he looked. The cut ran deep. Blood welled, dark and slow, soaking the edge of his training wrap.

He could’ve kept going. Could’ve let it clot, tightened the bandage, said nothing.

But he remembered her voice...clear and clinical in his mind, the tone of a standing order:

“You are instructed to come to sickbay for all health issues, however minor you may consider them.”

Cressida Vale. Commander. Doctor. He hadn’t forgotten.

Jace drew a breath. Not annoyed. Not resigned. Just...resolved.

“It’s fine,” he repeated, more to R’Valla than himself. Then he stripped the wrap from his forearm, pressed it tight to the wound. The motion was automatic. Pressure. Contain it.

R’Valla shifted again, tail low. “Sarge, I-”

“Not your fault.” He said it like fact. No blame. Just what was. “Drills are where it happens.” Then, with a nod toward the squad: “Ra-Gari takes cooldown.”

And that was that.

He left the mat, arm tight to his side, feet steady. The corridors between the gym and sickbay were known terrain. Mapped. Memorised. He chose the quiet route, as always.

The bleeding wasn’t heavy. Just steady. Just enough.

Crew passed him. They noticed. The uniform, the quiet intensity. The blood. But no one stopped him. No one spoke.

They knew his face. The man who didn’t speak unless it mattered.

The doors to sickbay hissed open. He walked through without pause.

Mieta knew at a glance what'd happened as soon as Jace made his way through the sickbay doors. Something had gone wrong in the middle of training, and this man had probably pushed down every last iota of Federation Ground Forces pride in his very soul to come here. The fact that he'd come through those doors without so much as a momentary pause in step said plenty. He wanted to be treated, without judgment, and be sent back to training or whatever he'd was doing.

It was charming, really, in a sort of 'oh well, here we go again' fashion.

And so, Mieta had instructed all her staff, when treating anyone from their unit, to do so utterly without judgment, and to send them off with a smile and the assurance that yes, no one else has to know about this, so don't you worry.. Standard stuff, honestly, but she'd seen a handful of nurses (and medical officers) who couldn't resist the urge to take a little rip at things like that.

The Kelpien was at his side at once. "Uncross your arm for me, will you, darling? I can't help you much when you're all wound up like that." She instructed with a smile, shepherding him to an empty biobed with a slender hand placed gently upon his shoulder. "Would you kindly tell me what happened?"

Jace uncrossed his arm without protest, the movement smooth but slow, calculated. The blood had soaked through the wrap now, dark against the fabric, a quiet spreading mark, but still controlled. Nothing that would stop him. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.

The Kelpien’s touch landed on his shoulder in its gentle, guiding way, and he didn’t flinch. But he did pause. Not from discomfort...just calibration. His body stilled briefly, as if recalibrating his expectations. Touch in his world was usually fast, bracing, clinical. This wasn’t that. He let it happen.

He sat on the biobed when told, boots aligning instinctively to the floor, back straight. Not at attention, but not relaxed either. Just still.

“Training,” he said, voice low, even. “Close quarters. Claw slip.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t give details she hadn’t asked for. Not because he was withholding, but because that was all she needed to know. The wound told the rest.

His eyes moved briefly over the medbay: the lights, the clean smell, the quiet hum. Not a place he liked, but not one he feared either. It had its purpose.

He didn’t ask how bad it was. He already knew. He was good at judging his own injuries.

"Let me see." What Mieta saw on the screen of her tricorder as she moved it over his wound wasn't pretty. The wound was deep. Whomever scratched him - probably the Caitian, who'd come in a day or two prior - hadn't been watching their own strength. She wasn't in a position to lecture him and his troops about the importance of training safety, it wasn't like she was their unit's medical officer, but the urge to do it was a niggling presence at the edge of her thoughts.

"Fret not, Sergeant, I'll have this wound of yours closed shortly. Ivan, get me a dermal regenerator, will you?" She instructed one of the junior nurses, who scampered off to get her the device she'd asked for. She appreciated that about them, the younger ones: their enthusiasm.

"You and your troops simply have to stop training like you're going to tear each other apart. My nurses and I get very, very worried when you do. Some of the more volatile ones even get... what do you humans call it, the 'hippy jibbies'?" Mieta said with a playful smile as she leaned gently against his biobed, staying ever so precariously on the border of his personal space. She'd instructed her nurses to treat without judgment, yes - but she'd said nothing about them (politely) teasing their patients while they did.

"Ah, thank you. Stay still for me, please?" Mieta's slender fingers curled gently around his bicep as Ivan handed her the dermal regenerator, and she began to run it down Jace's bicep. "You have very nice arms, sergeant. Testament to your discipline and experience, I'm sure." She remarked. "Don't you worry. You'll leave here with, at most, a thin line as proof that you were ever wounded."

Jace sat still as she worked, letting her words move around him like wind. He didn’t flinch at the touch, didn’t react to the teasing. His eyes stayed forward, unfocused. Not cold...just elsewhere. Listening without replying.

The commentary on his squad... he registered it, just enough to store it away. Noted, not challenged. He didn’t correct her. Didn’t explain that training wasn't truly about safety, it was about muscle memory under stress, in a controlled environment. That close quarters sparring with claws was better than seeing hesitation cost someone their life. It had gone too far, yes, but he could train his squad to maintain control better in sparring. It was doable. But that conversation wasn’t one he needed to have. Not here. Not with her.

She complimented his arms. He didn’t look at her.

His only movement was the steady rise of breath and the slight shift of muscle beneath her fingers as the dermal regenerator traced its line.

When she paused - whether for breath or effect - he finally spoke, voice low and dry: “Does that line stay if I don’t want it gone?” It wasn’t said sharply. No edge. Just quiet curiosity, a rare ripple in still water. Not flirtation. Not flirted with, either. Just a question with weight. One she could answer. Or ignore. He had scars from before, from a life before Starfleet, and things patched up in the field without the technology needed. Apart from the odd cut or burn, on his hands, he hadn't had a new scar since the end of the Dominion War.

Mieta would've been lying if she ever claimed on the spit that she wasn't the slightest bit disappointed that most of what she was saying went without a response. Two-aay conversation made treatment much less painless - especially for people like Jace. The ones who didn't want to be here often softened some when engaged in casual, even if fleeting, banter. Jace, it seemed, was utterly focused on his mission: come in, get his wound treated, leave. That too was fine by her. She'd expected nothing less from him the second he came through her doors.

"Most individuals' bodies leave nothing but a line behind. You, darling, will probably have a similar reaction." Mieta responded. "You can have that line as a reminder of whatever you like, I suppose!"

"At any rate." She removed the dermal regenerator from his skin; where there'd been a bleeding gash before, there was now a thin white line, a little jagged but not terribly noticeable. "The surface is whole now, but the flesh below isn't. I'd advise that you refrain from overworking that arm for the next day or so." Mieta added with a smile. And, possibly, think about how best to make your training safer. Questions or concerns before I let you go?"

Jace looked at the thin white line on his arm. It didn’t bother him. It was a record, that was all. Proof the wound had happened. Proof it was over. He tested the motion, tightening and flexing his hand, moved his arm, the subtle tug beneath the surface. The discomfort was negligible. Nothing worse than training strain. Nothing worth staying idle over, and his squad...they still need to train.

“I’ll compensate with the other side,” he said at last, quiet and level. Not defiant. Not boastful. Just... factual. A plan formed and already in motion. His eyes flicked to Mieta, not quite meeting hers, but near enough. “Appreciate the fix.” It was soft-spoken, sincere in its way. Not warmth, exactly, but a kind of professional respect.

"Just be careful, alright, darling? We can't keep patching you up because training safety occasionally takes a momentary back seat." Mieta replied, placidly, as she stood back to let him hop off and leave. "See you around, and hopefully not for the wrong reasons."

Jace slid off the biobed in one clean motion, the same way he moved off dropships or out of cover; purposeful, balanced, no wasted energy. The newly healed skin pulled faintly. Not pain. Just presence. A line, like she said. A record.

He didn’t comment on her warning. Didn’t argue or nod.

Instead, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve over the mark. Not to hide it. Just to cover it until it belonged to him. “Understood,” he said simply. Not cold. Not warm. Just meant. His eyes flickered to her before he gave a small nod and walked out with the same purpose he had entered sickbay with.

----

Lieutenant JG Mieta
Head Nurse
USS Guinevere

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

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