Held

Posted on Fri Jul 18th, 2025 @ 7:15am by Sergeant Jace Morven & Lieutenant JG Constance 'Connie' Montoya

2,845 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388

Another month. Another session.

Connie sipped her tea, her eyes on the PADD in front of her, of the file of Sergeant First Class Garin Vel, KIA. A weathered but open face looked back at her from the PADD. Bolian, dark eyes almost gentle, a small smile twitching at the lips as if he had held some secret when the picture had been taken. A thin scar on his cheek, pre-Starfleet. Maybe a mark of a lesson, or a reminder of a youth spent in adventure. His file read with comfort. Large family, a want to serve Warmth, humour, intelligence; all wrapped in a uniform. He could have been an officer but chose not to be one, to instead be the boots on the ground.

A stellar career. A mentor of troopers whose edges were sharper than they needed to be.

Connie exhaled softly. She rubbed the back of her neck, then subconsciously checked that her hair was still pinned up secure.

He was the catalyst.

At least for Jace Morven. Bravo Company had been his turning point after the war, where the reports about him became less about his coldness and more about his abilities. Not just about disabling efficiently, but about leading. Garin Vel had taken the trooper and found something in him that resonated, that he could nurture. And he had. It wasn’t a co-dependency as much as Morven had found someone who could translate the world in terms he could understand.

She’d have loved to be a fly on the wall back then. To see how he had built that loyalty. And it had been loyalty, unquestioning, no strings. No limits.

She reached for her cup again, held it in her hand to feel the warmth leech into the palm of her hand, the scent rising up into her face with the tendrils of steam. Her thumb moved slowly along the rim of the cup as she read. A grounding motion, deliberate…like she was marking time for someone who’d nearly run out of it.

Vel had taken the trooper that she suspected some officers would have preferred had died in the last days of the Dominion War and changed him from an inconvenience to an asset once more. He’d nurtured the patience of a sniper into something formal. Had taken Jace’s squad leadership, rankless and raw, and made it palatable to senior officers.

Hadn’t softened the edges as much as created insulation on them. The reports weren’t glowing, but they were more praise than criticism.

Vel’s in particular. Corporal Morven’s tactical mind is an asset in combat. He also possesses a good read of soldiers. In every exercise we have done, his team has always returned with zero casualties. He adjusts the line in real time and plays each member to their strengths. When a flank falls, he adapts and steps forward.

Yes. It formalised what he'd done during the war: structure. Achievable goals.

She moved to the next page, fingers light on the PADD. Something about reviewing the words Vel had written made her straighten her posture…like she was being watched, or expected to understand.

KIA. Cause of death, penetrating injury to chest.

Dovar IX.

She had read over the mission notes. Up until contact was lost with Vel during an ambush, Morven had followed orders. Vel’s orders. Only when they lost contact and it was clear that the mission had gone wrong did he go off-script. Ten dead in eleven minutes from when he left behind the team he had been with. One rescued diplomat.

One body retrieved. That part hadn’t been authorised.

Her fingertip rested on the cheek in the image, the glass cool beneath her skin. She held it there a moment longer than she meant to. Watched the dark eyes for a moment. “Didn’t you think what it would do to him, if you died. Didn’t you prepare him?” she whispered to the stillness of her office.

Not blaming. Not accusing. Just a question never to be answered.

She reached for her earrings and removed them. Turned off the PADD. Finished her tea.

Then she stood, moving quietly to make a fresh pot. This one she poured into her own porcelain set: two matching teacups, a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar. Not replicated. Real. Familiar. That too was intentional.

She was about to touch something delicate. She wanted to offer the same in return.

Her hands smoothed the front of her uniform, the skirt cut today. Limited movement, limited authority. That too was a choice. A signal: I am not here as a threat.

She sat. Let herself breathe once, fully. The chime would come at any moment.

And then he’d be here: the man Vel hadn’t prepared to leave behind.

Right on time, the chime rang and the doors opened.

Jace stood in the doorway like part of the ship’s superstructure. Still. Anchored. Uniform crisp but not new…worn into familiarity, like armour that had survived many drills.

Connie nodded once, calm and warm. “Good morning, Morven.” A pleasantry, yes, but also a recognition. Name as anchor. She didn’t watch him sweep the room though she felt the itch to. She’d seen it twice before: the near-invisible read of entry points, furniture, potential lines of sight. Instead, she turned toward the tea and poured.

Milk and sugar into his. Just milk for herself. The quiet clink of the spoon was the only sound for a moment.

She let him do what he needed. Secure the perimeter. Settle the space in his mind. Then he moved, soundless as always, and took the seat across from her. Same posture as before. Back straight. Hands resting, likely on his thighs, though from her angle she couldn’t confirm. It didn’t matter. He was present. That was enough.

She wondered if he marked the creak in the chair legs as data, or if the familiar sound gave him a map of how far he could let down his guard.

The tea sat between them, twin cups in porcelain. Not a test. Not a trap. Just an offering.

Connie reached for her own, the warmth blooming into her palms as she sipped. Let the silence hold.

Let him adjust.

When she decided it was time, she studied his face. “How are the squad? Another month. Are they improving?”

He nodded, just once. Small. Precise. Not for her benefit, but as if confirming the data in a readable moment. Blue eyes met hers for a heartbeat. Not connection, not quite. But acknowledgment. A recognition that she was part of the room, and not in his way. She noted the difference but didn’t remark on it.

“They’ll hold,” he said.

Connie gave a soft nod in return, a smile just tugging at the corner of her lips.

He didn’t embellish. Didn’t say how or why. But she didn’t need it. They’ll hold, like a barrier. Like a rope under tension. A soldier’s highest praise, delivered in tactical understatement.

“You train them every day?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer. This wasn’t about fact-finding. It was about the pattern.

Another nod. No elaboration. No shift in posture. But he was listening. Present. That, to her, was the measure.

It didn’t make the next part easier. But she had warned him last time. “I want to talk about Garin Vel.”

No shift in his posture. But a twitch…left cheek. Fast, involuntary.

No deep breath. No sweat on his brow. Just a sudden tightening, as if a door inside him had slammed shut before the handle had turned. She recognised it: reflex. Not resistance.

She gave it a second. Then, gently but clearly: “When did you realise he was mentoring you?” The question landed in the quiet like a soft footfall on cracked ground. She didn’t look away. Didn’t let the silence rush to fill the space. She’d promised him this. And she meant to keep that promise without flinching.

He stayed still. One beat. Two. Then, “when he gave me a team. Would sit down and tell me the assignment. Didn’t give me a PADD.”

Connie gave a slow, silent nod. That was more than she’d expected, and she treated it like what it was…a trust offering, not a breakthrough. Measured, like his tone.

The PADD detail lodged itself in her mind. Of course. She’d seen officers drown enlisted troopers in procedure manuals and then fault them for failure. Vel hadn’t. He’d removed the obstacle without naming it. No fanfare, no correction. Just adaptation, like it was nothing.

But it was something. A quiet translation of respect. A deliberate act of leadership. He’d seen where Morven was, not where he wasn’t.

“Did he teach you how to… recalculate?” she asked. “Apply your experiences to leading a squad?”

His eyes met hers. Briefly. Then a nod. Small. Absolute.

His gaze didn’t linger on her face. Not in a way most people meant it. He wasn’t tracking her. He was tracking the room. With her in it. Not looking for an escape, but watching for shift. Pattern recognition. Silent systems check.

She didn’t interrupt it. Let him map the terrain.

His fingers flexed once on his thigh. Subtle. Could’ve been a tic. Could’ve been tension. But it looked like something else to her…a recalibration. The kind of shift you made when you’d just let something in and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.

He didn’t say more.

But he was still here. Still in the room.

That mattered.

She nodded, reaching for her tea. The cup fit easily in her hands, fingers curling around the porcelain. She didn’t sip right away. Just held it. Let the warmth press into her palms like a grounding stone.

Then she drank…slow, deliberate, letting the flavour wash over her tongue. Assam. Familiar. Present. A warmth that lingered. Something chosen.

Across the table, his cup remained untouched.

She set hers down again, careful. The sound of porcelain meeting porcelain was soft, muted by her steady hand and spatial awareness. No sudden movements. No sharp edges. Not here.

Just their breathing. The low hum of the ship beyond the walls. And the quiet weight of a space they were both learning how to share.

“You followed him,” she said, her voice steady. Not testing. Not accusing. Just laying truth on the table, waiting to see if it was shared.

He hadn’t moved since he’d sat. Shoulders square. Back straight. Stillness clinging to him like armour. Like breath held too long. Not tense, but held, the way some people brandished weapons. Not to fire. Just to show the dark they weren’t afraid.

“Would you have followed him into death?” She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t soften it either. The question wasn’t a knife. It was a stone dropped into still water….blunt, undeniable, a weight.

Silence followed. Not tense. But dense. Like gravity had shifted in the room. Then, finally: “I did.”

No embellishment. Just those two words, shaped like bone. A line of truth spoken without regret, without flourish. But not without pain.

She didn’t react. Just nodded, once. “I know.” The words weren’t comfort. They were alignment. A shared understanding, spoken gently. She felt his gaze settle on her then. Not sharp, not scanning. Just watching. Assessing the distance. The silence between them hummed with something new; not threat, not retreat. Just awareness.

Connie moved her hands, slow and deliberate, placing them on the desk. Palms down. Fingers soft but visible. Her posture didn’t shift forward...no lean, no pressure, but her presence was undeniable.

Letting him see her. Letting him decide what kind of weapon she wasn’t.

The silence stretched between them; long, low, and steady. Then Jace looked away. Not a flinch. Not a retreat. Just…a choice. A line drawn under a thought, as if he’d reached the edge of what could be held in eye contact.

She didn’t fill the space with guesses. Didn’t try to peer into the gap he’d left. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, a gesture as fluid as breath, her eyes resting on him without weight. Waiting, not pressing.

“Are you still applying what he taught you?” The question was soft but anchored. A single thread cast across the silence. She wasn’t asking to tug him forward, only to check if he was still tethered.

The moment stayed unbroken. It stretched without strain, quiet but charged…like a held breath between firing and recoil.

She didn’t expect introspection. That wasn’t how he moved. He wasn’t a man who sifted through emotions like datapoints. But action? That he understood. Tactics, habits, drills: those were the echoes of instruction. And perhaps when the silence pressed close, he did replay them. Not with clarity. But the way a scent can bring you back to the battlefield.

She thought of men haunted not by screams, but by the weight of memory…how it perched on their armour, quiet and breathing beside them.

Not panic. Not collapse. Just presence. Always.

He nodded. Bare. Efficient. The movement was a hinge, not a door.

She didn’t press for words. He’d already answered.

“Good,” she said, and settled back in her chair, letting the quiet resettle around them. There was a balance here…not easy, not permanent, but real. Hard-won, inch by inch. “Next time, we’ll talk about your squad. And this ship. Its crew. Just that.”

A reprieve. A shift in focus. He’d earned that much.

Time was up anyway. She saw him register it...not visibly, not obviously, but she felt it in the way his body came alert. A quiet reactivation. He stood smoothly, as if called to parade, but without stiffness. It was that same honed economy of movement that always made her think of old rituals. Ceremonial, almost. Balanced.

If she thought he’d follow the rules, she might have been tempted to teach him fencing. But he had enough weapons. What he needed was the space to set them down.

She rose as well, slower. Measured.

And then her eyes caught on his hands.

Fingerless gloves. Dark green. Wool. Non-regulation.

Her breath caught, just once. No sound. Just the softest, reflexive intake. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t let the surprise or warmth cross her face too boldly. Just a pause, a note, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. She met his gaze. Steady. Unshaken. And then...a small, genuine smile. One meant only for this room.

The words she didn’t always enjoy saying still came…low, clear, and intentional. A signal. A permission. A language he knew. “Dismissed.”

He met her eyes. Held them. Just for a breath.

Then he turned on his heel and walked out...silent, as always. Steady. Contained. Gone from view.

Connie exhaled and sank back into her chair, her spine softening with the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. A smile touched her lips...unspoken, instinctive.

It grew.

Non-regulation, home-knitted, dark green fingerless gloves.

He’d worn them here…into a session about Garin Vel. He’d brought a grounding object, made for him by someone else’s hands. And he’d done it without shame. Not hidden. Not apologised for. Just...worn.

Her head tilted slightly as the pieces fit into place. Not her breakthrough...no. She hadn’t done anything today except offer space. But it didn’t matter. The shift had happened. Stillness could carry movement, too.

Someone had made a connection with him.

She picked up her PADD and tapped it on. Her tone was quiet, measured. Not clinical...never that, but professional, tempered with something softer at the edges.

“Sergeant J. Morven attended the monthly counselling session as instructed.

While there is not trust between us yet, he is still attending and answering questions. There are signs of integration, perhaps on his terms, with crew members.

Sergeant Morven’s mental state appears unchanged, but there are subtle indicators he is taking more proactive steps to prevent emotional shutdown when confronted with difficult subjects.”

She set the PADD down. Exhaled again...slower, this time. Then reached for her tea and finished the last of it. Her eyes drifted to the other cup. Still untouched.

It didn’t matter.

As far as she could see...there was progress. Not a miracle. But something tangible. Something real. Something earned.

---

Lt. jg Connie Montoya
Counsellor
USS Guinevere

&

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

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