Reporting Aboard

Posted on Sun Jun 8th, 2025 @ 8:53am by Sergeant Jace Morven & Lieutenant Colonel W.B Llewelyn

2,177 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Ground Force Operations Center - Deck 13
Timeline: 2388

Lieutenant Colonel William Bryan "W.B." Llewelyn parsed his lips. Rotating troopers was already a nightmare on a good day, but changing over this many troopers had to be one of the hardest. The Ground Force detachment was bringing on near worth Two Companies of troopers for exercises and security duties aboard Guinevere. According to the Commodore, his dissatifaction with the prior Starfleet Security Chief had him ordering all of the Starfleet Security garrison off the ship and assigning all security operations duties to the Ground Force Detachment.

Llewelyn liked that idea. Not standing by idly, they would be doing something productive.

However, the file he was looking at for 1st Platoon's new Sergeant had him... concerned . He hadn't seen or read a file like Morven's. Equally brave, yet according to records, equally dangerous. Concerning was his conduct in the Dominion Wars, with the "Black Ash" Battalion. While praised, his recorded cited: “while Morven’s results were strategically successful, his methods remain cause for psychological monitoring.”

Morven's response according to transcripts was equally grim "They were still moving".

He would have to watch this one. Still, he welcomed the skill set he brought.

W.B waited patiently for him to arrive in the Barracks, he was asked to report directly to him.

Sergeant Jace Morven knew the moment his boots crossed the threshold into the barracks of the USS Guinevere, he'd need to report to the Federation Ground Forces Detachment CO.

The transfer orders from Echo had come fast: sudden, and a surprise even to him, though he hadn't let anyone see it. His counselor had delivered the news. Quiet. Small. Calm. A man who had watched him with patient eyes but always expected, expected, expected…something that Jace couldn't give him, hadn't given him. There had been a shift in him that day. Something reluctant. Like he'd lost a battle he hadn't wanted to fight.

Jace could read between the lines. The counselor hadn't wanted to let him go. But Jace had met the bar. Improved enough to be transferred.

Well. Tough shit, he guessed.

He'd packed his duffle and shipped out. First Platoon. Still a Sergeant. Which meant he'd be exactly what he had been in Echo, just now without a Lieutenant breathing down his neck like the leash had to be short.

As his feet hit the deck of the Guinevere, one of many boots arriving, he made his way to the barracks.

He hadn't read the specs of the ship that had been attached to the transfer orders. Hadn't even tried. The words in the assignment file had blurred the way they always did….wrong lines, wrong shapes, meaning slipping through the cracks before he could hold on to it. That battle had long since exhausted him. There were days it had driven him to bruise his own knee with a grip too tight, trying to force focus where it wouldn't come.

The computer could have read it to him. He didn’t bother.

But he'd memorised the layout. He always did that. It meant he didn't have to ask for directions. It meant he could move through new corridors like he belonged. He knew where he was going, and who he had to see.

He'd been told to report to Lieutenant Colonel Llewelyn as soon as he arrived. He moved with purpose now, boots whispering over polished floors. This was a starship, not a deployment barge falling apart at the seams, or a rusting starbase where every step echoed in disrepair. The Guineverefelt sleek and quiet. But beneath that quiet… beneath the smooth design and gleaming panels… there was readiness.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he stepped into the barracks, just another Sergeant in a sea of new arrivals. But he had a mission. He had orders. He moved to the wall lockers, stowed his duffle, pulled out the PADD with his transfer documentation just in case, and made his way to find the Lieutenant Colonel.

It took him three minutes.

When he saw the man, he wasn't entirely sure what he expected. So he straightened slightly, hands clasped behind his back, posture controlled. Still. "Sergeant Jace Morven, reporting for duty, sir."

Flat voice. No emotion. His face just as unreadable. But his eyes moved over the man in front of him, sharp and quick...cataloguing every visible detail. A practiced assessment.

The Lieutenant Colonel looked the Sergeant over. A parse of his lips as he inspected the new sergeant. The man before him seemed cold. Too cold. Distant, blank. No emotional reading from him, his body language never betraying the Sergeant.

“At ease, Sergeant.” Llewelyn commanded with a stern voice and a firm posture of his own. Commanding, displaying strength of his character.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel William Bryan Llewelyn. This is Guinevere, and her defense and safety will be our charge. Do you understand, Sergeant?” He asked just as sternly. W.B knew from Jace’s file that he would have to have a firm hand but would give him more slack when Jace proves himself aboard ship.

The sternness of the Lieutenant Colonel's voice washed over Jace and settled into that familiar, comfortable space where things didn’t matter. Orders. Structure. The rhythm of discipline. If he'd strained, he might've caught something beneath the Standard, maybe regional, maybe base-born. But he didn't. He was a Sergeant. The man in front of him was his Commanding Officer. That was all that mattered.

When Llewelyn told him to go at ease, it wasn't shouted, but it landed. The posture, the tone…all of it was a display. Controlled, upright, with a quiet warning under the surface. 'Top dog. Don’t mistake me for soft'.

Jace shifted to parade rest, but he saw it. He understood it. And something in him, older and deeper, wanted to rise to it. Not to challenge, not out of disrespect, but because some part of him only understood strength by meeting it.

But that part had been trained down. Beaten quiet.

So he stayed still. Let it settle. Didn't challenge. Just stood, composed.

He met Llewelyn's eyes for a beat, then let his gaze drift to the bridge of the man's nose. An old trick, the illusion of connection without the opening. "Yes, sir. I understand," he said, voice flat but clear.

And he did. The Detachment here wasn't just along for the ride. It was integrated. Active. That was new. Ships had always been waiting rooms with engines: not assignments. Not something to belong to.

But this felt different. A foothold, maybe. Routines. Something with weight. It intrigued him more than he wanted it to, though he buried that deep. He wanted to ask what does that mean, exactly? But he didn't. He didn’t know this man yet. Didn't know how much he'd give.

So he said nothing else. Let the silence settle. Held his position. And waited for the next order.

“I’m going to be frank with you, Sergeant. The garrison is to assume all security responsibilities and operations for this ship. Starfleet Security dropped the ball so it’s up to the Ground Force to pick it up.” He began, not taking his eyes off of Jace.

“We will not be idle, this is our home, and it is our duty to defend her.” He leaned on the large table in front of him.

“You will be commanding Alpha Squad, First Platoon. 10 troopers. Do you understand?”

Llewelyn paused for his answer. The Betazed looked at this sergeant, trying to glean anything that could help him determine what was needed.

For a moment, Jace's expression shifted...a small frown, fleeting. He'd just been given a command. Ten soldiers. A squad of his own.

He'd led before. Issued orders. Broken up fights. Established himself as the one you didn't cross. But he'd never been the heart. He could teach how to clean a rifle, patch up a wound, enforce a routine...but he wasn’t a mentor, he didn't how how to inspire people.

Vel had tried to show him how to lead like that. With a nice calm, with unwavering steadiness. But Jace had always been a guard dog, something you unleashed on people. He followed orders. Served. Without that, he slipped, he fell into old habits carved deep by survival.

There was a flicker of unease, low and quiet, close to fear. If no one marked the line…would he still know where it was?

His eyes went to Llewelyn. The frown faded, though a muscle under his eye twitched once, sharp.

"Yes, sir. I understand."

He did. The assignment, the responsibility, the shape of it on paper.

What he didn't understand was the tight pull in his chest. It was something restless, uncertain, pushing to the surface. He smothered it.

Don’t show weakness. Don’t give them a reason to let you go.

“Do you have any questions or concerns about your new assignment?” The Colonel took a chance and asked for his input. Llewelyn had hoped that by having him ask the questions he could gleam more about Jace. Even for the Betazed, The Sergeant was hard to read. Even with his telepathic ability. It was like a jumble in his mind and that could be good or bad.

The Colonel's words hung in the air, and Jace blinked, the weight of them settling slowly. Questions. Concerns. He had both, but none of it was easy to voice. He could feel the space between his discomfort and what the Colonel needed. "Just," he started, the word rough, unsure. He wet his lips, eyes flickering as something shifted in his chest. The brief connection , and maybe it was the question, maybe just the man before him allowed something small and unspoken pass between them. For a brief second, Jace's discomfort broke through the careful walls he kept between himself and the world around him.

"I'm not... experienced in mentoring a squad, Sir. Not by myself," he said, words halting, forced out like he was speaking against instinct. "I take orders. Pass them down. Keep discipline in line." He stopped, but not fast enough. He could feel the tension coil inside him. He had no idea how to explain the other part. How to say what needed saying without feeling... weak. "I don't inspire trust easily, Sir."

That was the truth, and it burned as he said it. A recognition of what he was, what he had always been. A weapon, an attack dog. Not a leader. Not a guide.

He stood a little straighter, still taut with the tension of his own words. "I... I don’t know how to bridge that gap, Sir. Never have." The words sounded weak in his mouth and tasted sour, but they were the truth. Even Vel had tried, shown him a way to lead. But that had never been Jace's way. He was never the one they trusted. The one who pulled the pack together. He stared straight ahead, fighting the instinct to look away, to hide the rawness that leaked through his control.

Nodding, the colonel replied to this. “I believe that you’re more than capable of leading the squad. I’m giving you this chance to show that. My first command was just as much a learning experience. You’ll fail and stumble but those mistakes will push you to do better, be better. Do you understand, Sergeant?”

The realisation hit Jace slowly, with every word that the man before him said. He was being given a squad. Not by accident like during the Dominion War, where he'd ended up in front and others had followed. This was deliberate. Structured. Peacetime. Ship security.

And trust.

That part caught in his chest...tight and unfamiliar. He hadn't felt anything like it since Vel. A weight he didn't know how to carry anymore.

He nodded, then remembered that wasn't enough.

"Yes, sir. I understand," he said. Flat, steadier now that he was locking himself up in himself again, retreating behind the shell. And he did understand. At least the role, the orders. The rest... he'd have to figure out. How to be part of a pack again, not just the thing they pointed at the dark.

The colonel nodded once more. “I’m sure the journey was long. Get settled into the barracks and report tomorrow at 0600 for Reveille. You’ll meet your squad then. That’ll be all, Sergeant. You’re dismissed” The colonel spoke once more, dismissing the sergeant.

Jace snapped to attention, face unreadable, carved from habit and now settled firmly back in what was expected from him. Orders. 0600 hours. Reveille. Meet the squad. Dismissed. The words hit him with the same weight as breath: automatic, expected. "Sir," he said, nothing more than confirmation, a posture made audible. He turned and left.

—————

Lieutenant Colonel W.B. Llewelyn
Federation Ground Forces
U.S.S Guinevere

Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant
U.S.S Guinevere

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