Across the Storm Divide [4/4]

Posted on Thu Jul 10th, 2025 @ 2:03pm by Sergeant Jace Morven

1,744 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388

That mission. Standard for them. They'd been sent on enough of them back then.

Not special. Not new. Why did it linger now?

His eyes flickered to the corner of the room. For a second, it was like the years fell away. The same quiet pressure, the same cold air. The weight of the mission pressing down on him again. It was like he was back there...no room to breathe. The world reduced to the crackle of phaser fire and the pounding of his heartbeat, thumping in his ears.

He hadn’t been a Sergeant then. But he’d known exactly what needed doing. The mission had been clear. The risks, too many to count. Grant’s mistake had been obvious from the moment the orders came down. The kid with the wide eyes, eager to prove himself. But eager didn’t cut it. It never had.

Jace understood why the memory resurfaced now. It wasn’t some random flash. It was a fact. The rookie had reminded him of what battle had taken the first time. Of the training that was required. The green troops. The raw energy that could get someone killed if it wasn’t controlled.

The thought flickered out, but it left its mark. He needed a plan. A quiet corner. A PADD to record his thoughts. Structure the training he'd never had time for before, not during a war.

He exhaled slowly, the breath steady, but his mind was still running the mission.

"Stay focused."

He could still hear his voice, low and firm. Not a shout, not an order. But there had been weight in it, a command woven into those simple words. No anger. No authority. Just unity. He hadn’t needed to raise his voice. It had been understood.

Now, in the quiet of his bunk, he wondered if Grant had understood it But by then, Jace had fallen into a certain behaviour with his squad. Back earlier his his career, he had just taken the lead. Cleared the space himself. Things changed. And in the end, it wasn’t about Grant’s failure. It had always been about the squad moving as one.

About teaching.

Alone, you were just a body with a phaser. Together, you were a unit. A team. A pack.

His fingers flexed against the sheets, a sudden sharpness breaking through. Then it passed. His body remained still. His mind still running, ticking off the minutes. No use in dwelling. The job had been done. The mission was over. He had done what was necessary. It was done.

Emotions didn’t have a place in battle. He’d seen that before. Seen it in people like Terrow, who carried the weight of it all in their chest. Jace didn’t operate like that. It was about control.

Control.

That was the key. Always.

Operation Opal – Final Weeks of the Dominion War, 2375

The extraction point was a small clearing, barely wide enough to fit the shuttle between the trees and the sheer drop into the chasm below. But it was enough. The storm howled like a beast, the wind biting through the trees, flinging snow in all directions. The ground was uneven, snow up to their knees, each step a chore. The air was thick with cold, the storm’s fury gnawing at their faces, and every exposed patch of skin stung. But inside, the squad moved like they always did: efficient, purposeful. No hesitation. No room for anything but the mission.

The Dominion were still behind them. The fight wasn’t over. But for now, it was a waiting game. And waiting was something Jace had become intimately familiar with. The longer they lingered, the more time the enemy had to regroup, to find their weaknesses. Jace wasn’t about to give them that chance.

Jace stood at the edge of the shuttle, rifle raised, eyes scanning the perimeter. His movements were fluid, like part of the storm itself, adjusting to its rhythm, its chaos. He didn’t flinch as the wind sliced across his skin. His posture remained tight, controlled, each breath steady despite the pounding in his chest. His body was more than a machine at this point. It was a weapon, forged through years of constant readiness.

He felt the squad behind him, a whisper of movement, a steady presence. The rustle of bodies in the cold, the crunch of boots in the snow...each step in sync. Martinez, Kerren, Banik, Terrow...each one a part of the whole, the puzzle that worked seamlessly together. But Grant...Jace kept an eye on him, his attention flicking back to the rookie. The kid’s steps were too quick, his rifle too loosely gripped. He was trying too hard to prove something. That kind of energy got people killed if you weren’t careful.

Jace didn’t need to say anything. He just watched. Grant would learn. Or he wouldn’t.

The squad moved, the mission complete, the data secured. The shuttle waited. The Starfleet pilot glanced at them briefly, her eyes dark with the kind of weariness that only someone who’d seen too many extractions could know. She let out a breath and looked ahead, then started singing.

“...but still my true love waits for me, across the storm divide...Across the storm divide... shotgun at my side...”

Her voice was loud enough for them all to hear, but not loud enough for her to realise it. Martinez smirked, humming along, clearly recognising the song. Banik nudged Terrow, who raised an eyebrow in amusement. Kerren sighed quietly, his head tipping back slightly. Not to relax. Not yet. They weren’t out of danger.

Jace didn’t take his eyes off the horizon, watching the storm fade as the shuttle lifted. Only when the shuttle broke through the storm’s heavy veil did he exhale, the breath feeling too long in coming. They were out. For now.

His eyes flicked to Grant, the rookie. He was pale, his hands still gripping his rifle with white-knuckled intensity, as if it might snap if he let go. Jace didn’t speak immediately, just watched him. The kid had been through his first firefight. It had been a mess, but they’d made it out.

Grant was still here. Still breathing. That was enough, for now.

Jace stood, walked over, and sat next to him. He didn’t speak at first, just sat there, letting the hum of the shuttle fill the silence. The air inside was warm, but it didn’t erase the chill of the storm outside. It didn’t erase the weight of the battle.

“First time’s the worst,” Jace said, his voice low, flat—just an observation. He didn’t need to say more. He knew how it went. He’d seen it before.

Grant didn’t respond at first. His eyes flickered up at Jace, searching. He didn’t say anything, but his hands loosened around the rifle just a fraction. Jace didn’t push it.

Jace reached for his canteen and opened it. He handed it over; Grant took it, grimacing when he swallowed.

“That’s not water,” Grant muttered, voice thick.

“Cold, but still mint tea,” Jace replied, his mouth curling slightly at the edges. He nodded as Grant handed it back, taking a sip himself. The mint was sharp, clearing the taste of destruction, dust, and blood that clung to his throat.

As the storm faded behind them, the mission complete, Jace’s eyes flicked to Grant again. The rookie was still pale, but there was a change in him now, a shift. He wasn’t just a liability anymore. He was a trooper. Jace could see that. The kid had survived. He had fought. And he would keep fighting.

Jace didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

He had made sure of it.

USS Guinevere, 2388

It was warmer now, but Jace was wide awake. The others were asleep, scattered across the room like silent shadows, bodies pressed into the corners, their breathing slow and even. He sat up, his movements slow, deliberate. The hum of the ship was a distant presence, familiar but muted against the weight of his thoughts.

He swung his legs over the side of the bunk. His bare feet hit the cold floor, the chill biting into his skin. He looked down at his left foot, the one that Doctor Vale had operated on. He felt the absence of pain, a strange relief that still startled him. After years of discomfort, pushing it down and adjusting, the sudden lack of it felt like an error in the system. He looked at it again, almost instinctively, running through an internal checklist. The discomfort was gone, but the memory of it was still there.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound barely more than a sigh. It didn’t make sense, but that was the point. Things like this didn’t make sense.

He stood, the movement fluid, the silence in the room wrapping around him like a cloak. His feet padded across the cold deck, soundless, deliberate. He moved to his locker, pulling it open with a soft hiss of metal on metal. He took what he needed. Clothes. He’d dress.

He needed to run. A way to work off the edge, the adrenaline still left from the day. The track wasn’t an option. He did not want to encounter the warrior. Not again.

Deck 20. That would do. Out of the way. No one would think to look for him there. It was quiet, secluded, a place where he could run, without eyes on him. Where he did not have to set a standard or perform. He would just avoid certain areas of it.

He got dressed, each movement precise. Not to disturb the others. Let them rest. Let them catch their breath. They had earned it, their camaraderie a momentary respite before the world demanded more of them. Before he demanded more of them.

Rest wasn’t an option right now. Only the rhythm of his steps, the beat of his heart, and the burn in his lungs that would come when he pushed himself too far, too fast. Something to feel.

So he could sharpen his mind for the task once more.

---

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

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