Tea, Troopers, and Truths

Posted on Sun Jul 20th, 2025 @ 11:28am by Lieutenant JG Constance 'Connie' Montoya

2,525 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388

She had made tea.

The teapot sat on the low table in front of her sofa, steam curling gently above the spout. One cup, already poured. A dash of milk. No sugar.

She wasn’t in uniform, had traded it for a soft grey blouse and a brighter skirt, the colour a quiet contrast to the mood of the files in front of her. Her heels lay discarded nearby. Barefoot, grounded, she pulled the PADD closer with one hand while the other rested loosely around her cup.

The music was low, instrumental jazz tonight. Just loud enough to muffle her own breath. Just quiet enough to let her thoughts move without friction.

Connie was working.

Not obsessively. Not as compulsion. But the evening hours softened things. Made the distance between a fact and a feeling easier to cross. And this kind of work…deliberate, for her human, textured…wasn’t the kind you could always do during a shift.

She was reviewing the Federation Ground Forces Detachment.

Lieutenant Colonel W.B. Llewelyn’s file sat open before her. Dark Betazoid eyes stared out from the official portrait. His record was clean…no, not just clean. Purposeful. The kind of career built by someone who understood not just strategy but people. A Betazoid who didn’t weaponize empathy or telepathy but wielded it like a compass.

A leader. Solid. Measured. Built like he carried weight, and chose to. She liked what she saw. Not the polish of it, but the steadiness. The understanding.

Next file. Corporal Ra-Gari. Efrosian.

A solid record, especially for twenty-six. Grounded. Present. The kind of steady personality that drew others in without trying. He’d go far…if he wanted to. She suspected he did. To a point.

But not at the cost of himself.

There was a line he wouldn’t cross...not out of fear, but preservation. If the job ever started to hollow him out, he’d leave it behind. She respected that.

Next. Corporal Trelan. Betazoid.

Connie had assessed her personally during initial intake. Another dependable presence, but not without rough edges. Self-regulation of her telepathy had been a consistent issue…though not due to negligence. Trelan had spoken of it openly. Leaving Betazed had been a shock to her system, she’d said. Being surrounded by minds that blocked, that withheld, that lied…even unintentionally, it had left her adrift. On Betazed, knowing was the norm. Among non-telepaths, she had to guess.

And humans? Humans lied to themselves so easily, it bled outward.

Connie had made a note: stable but should be monitored for emotional fatigue. A Betazoid without clarity could drown in fog.

PFC Aria Kade. That one had entered Connie’s office like she belonged there: shoulders squared, voice even, eyes far too old for her smooth, young face. A field medic without ambition to be anything more. No glory in her, no hunger for stripes. Just purpose.

Connie had asked why she joined. The answer had stayed with her: “I want to make sure the principles of the Federation are defended in the trenches as much as on the bridge.”

There’d been truth in it. Clean, idealistic truth. Enough to make Connie feel both admiration and quiet concern. She’d logged a personal note. See her after missions. Debrief one-on-one.

Because the trenches could eat idealism alive.

Connie had never stood in one herself. But she’d seen what they left behind.

The combat engineer had greeted her with a grin so wide it nearly split his face. Bolian. All joy and nerves, like someone who hadn’t yet learned what to guard. She’d felt the ache the moment he entered…young, open, bright with belief. The kind that still thought dreams were career plans.

He’d been green, and he knew it. But there was no posturing. Only the real, wide-eyed desire to be good.

She had asked him why he chose Ground Forces.

“Well, they need people who can repair things in a crisis, right? FGF’s not just about battles…it’s about repairing afterwards. So. I wanted to help.”

Help. That word had landed and stayed.

She hadn’t let silence stretch too long…he didn’t like it. She’d seen the way his fingers twitched slightly when it did. So she met his energy with presence, not stillness. Not reassurance; he didn’t need that. He just needed space to speak. And he’d filled it, sorting himself out in real time.

She’d written only three words in his file: Hope. Guard gently.

PFC Rourke had entered like a swagger made flesh. All charm. Easy grin. Flirtation so overt it bordered on strategy. Connie hadn’t risen to the bait. She’d just let him move…observed the way his body held itself in his uniform, the way his shoulders turned when he wanted attention. He knew how to get eyes on him.

Basic hadn’t trained out the cockiness. Or the simmering edge underneath. A kind of protective aggression that didn’t quite fit his age. She’d seen it before…in war orphans grown up too fast, too angry to grieve properly.

His mother had died in the War. He didn’t say it with reverence. Just with weight.

“I joined to fight. Not to be Security on a ship. If I wanted that, I’d have gone regular Fleet.”

Connie had nodded. Not in agreement, just in recognition. She let him vent. Let the air leave his lungs. Let the righteous anger feel like it had room to breathe. And then she’d pressed. Challenged his framing. Not combatively...just enough to make him blink.

He didn’t blink often.

She’d scheduled follow-ups before he left. She wasn’t naïve. He was the kind who could either burn bright or burn someone else. And if she didn’t get ahead of it, someone would be scraping him off the walls of The Green Kiss by month’s end.

Private Garo Vren had been quiet. Not withdrawn, just…stilled, like a mind trying not to leak.

His file told her what she needed to know on paper. Brilliant in simulations. Tactical precision. A logic-driven thinker with clear potential for advancement. But the young man who’d sat in her office was muted in a different way. He’d joined to be the best of the best, and now he was here. On a ship.

Not on the edge of battlefields or shaping outcomes. Not in some elite covert post. Just...here.

So Connie had asked him the obvious question, but not unkindly. “What does being the best mean to you?”

He hadn’t been able to answer. She hadn’t pressed. Some truths don’t come when chased.

Instead, she’d simply offered a frame: “You can still be the best. Learn from those around you. Learn the true size of Starfleet...not just your quiet corner.”

She wasn’t sure it landed. But not everything needed to, not yet. She hadn’t scheduled a follow-up. No signs of imminent replicator assaults or self-destruction. Some of them, she could let drift a little before steering.

Private Liana Reyes had entered with that floating gait. Connie had spotted it instantly...grew up low-grav. Bones just slightly too careful, balance just slightly tuned for something lighter than this.

Her talk was brisk. Fast. Ambitious.

A future Sergeant, she’d said; said it like she’d already picked out the stripes. Eager for action, though not enough to raise alarms. Just enough to sound rehearsed.

There was bravado. Not dangerous, not yet. But Connie had marked it. She listened past the practiced certainty and watched for the glimpses of real grounding underneath.

And it was there. Beneath the performance, Connie saw it...the charisma, the force of will. Not yet honed. But present.

One day, Liana Reyes might command a squad. Just...not yet. Not until she learned that steel without weight is just flash.

Another Moon-born private. Nathanial Voss had entered with his shoulders already braced, like he expected to be corrected just for existing. Connie had struggled to slot him alongside the others. Not for lack of effort, but because he seemed to flicker…uncertain, as if waiting for permission to belong.

He was intelligent. That much was obvious within a minute. Technical aptitude, sharp understanding, and clear theoretical training. He spoke softly, tentatively, as though he were asking for space instead of taking it. His body hadn’t caught up to the rest of him yet. He knew the motions, understood the drills, but his frame hadn’t absorbed it, hadn’t believed yet that he could hold his ground.

“I just… want to…”

He hadn’t finished the sentence. The words folded back in on themselves, caught behind a frown. Hands restless over his knees. She had paused. Then quietly stood, made tea. Not a metaphor, not a gesture. Just tea.

No desk. No eye contact. Just a cup placed gently into his hands as she sat beside him. They drank in silence. It stretched. She let it. Eventually, she changed the subject. Let the weight dissipate, gave him space without naming it.

Imposter syndrome. That was the word she wrote later. He’d passed his training, but not yet his own self-bar. Physically slower than some of his peers, less sure-footed in formation. But he was still here. Stubbornness, maybe. Or hope.

She hadn’t insisted on follow-ups. She’d suggested them. On his terms. Voluntary, open-door.

He’d come back five times already. Connie was getting to know him. Not all at once…but well. And that mattered more than finishing any sentence.

Private Bralk had entered like a wall waiting to be pushed back. Looking for a fight.

He didn’t get one. Connie had simply gestured for him to sit.

No reaction to his posturing. No indulgence of his jabs. When the bravado failed to hook her into a tug-of-war, the edges of him dulled. Underneath the strength was fragility…an unspoken uncertainty about where he fit.

He was performing as the Federation Ground Forces trooper. Or at least, what he thought it was supposed to be, what he was supposed to be. Bark, swagger, muscle.

But he didn’t know the rhythm of it yet.

She’d seen it before. Boys and men who didn’t know how to ask for belonging, so they demanded space instead. Old instincts in a young body, a need to prove himself as being the strongest physically. No fear. No weakness, assumed right to simply be right and followed. There was an ancient term for it…toxic masculinity, but Connie didn’t need the label. She was not even sure it applied here. She saw the loneliness beneath it.

Forcing him into counselling would only entrench the armour. So instead, she asked about hobbies.

He blinked at her. Then muttered something about singing. A deep, surprisingly rich bass.

She’d raised an eyebrow. Suggested a choir. Connection doesn’t always come from talking, after all. Sometimes it comes from harmony.

Private R’Valla padded in with alert grace and a confidence that wasn’t performative. A Caitian, lean and fluid, with clever eyes that tracked every movement in the room before she even spoke. She was good. And she knew it. Still green, though. Sharp around the edges. Talked quickly, thought faster. That impulsive streak wasn’t hidden…just worn with awareness.

“Always difficult pushing the instincts down,” she’d admitted, tail flicking once before stilling. “But I’m doing it. And I’ll only get better.”

There had been no arrogance in it. Just truth.

Connie had liked her.

There was joy beneath the quick talk, a warmth that showed she wanted this: wanted to earn it, not just perform it. R’Valla had mentioned a short stint in the Starfleet Enlisted Preparation Program. Two months of crash-course Federation literacy. Not technical skill—she already had that. But the cultural fluency. The soft-code of Starfleet.

And she’d said it without shame. That mattered more than anything.

The last file in the list wasn’t one she needed to re-read. Sergeant Jace Morven. And that…well. That was a work in progress.

She knew the markers by now. The stillness that wasn’t peace. The way he tracked the room for exits without seeming to. A man built for utility, not comfort. He didn’t speak more than necessary…but when he did, it was precise.

Their sessions had been…quiet, mostly.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because Jace had long ago learned to ration speech like water in a drought. She had met him where he was…rarely pushing, but never retreating. She knew better than to try to unlock him like a puzzle box. He wasn’t something to be solved.

Just…heard. Sometimes he said more than he meant to, a sentence at a time. Sometimes he didn’t speak at all. But he came. Always. And in that, there was something sacred.

He didn’t owe her trust. And yet, he hadn’t bolted either. That counted.

So yes. A work in progress. But weren’t everyone? And if all she ever managed was to be a space he didn’t flinch from…well, perhaps that too was enough.

Connie switched off the PADD and reached for her tea, fingers curling around the cup with practised ease. The brew had cooled slightly…just enough to be pleasant. She took a sip, letting it rest on her tongue, and breathed in the faint, familiar scent of Assam and milk.

Her eyes drifted, not to the stars beyond the hull, but to the reflection of herself in the darkened viewport. The blouse was creased now. She didn’t mind. The evening had softened.

The detachment. The Ground Forces. The strongarm of the ship, stationed as Security but quietly forged for a war the Federation hoped would never come again. She wasn’t naïve. Some of them were still waiting for the next trench, even here, aboard a Starfleet vessel. Others didn’t know what they were waiting for at all.

She didn’t let herself worry...not in the way that gnawed. It wouldn’t serve them. Observation would. Seeing how they moved between the departments, how they held themselves in corridors, who they spoke to. Who they didn’t.

That was her work. Quiet, deliberate, and mostly unnoticed. The kind of work that didn’t save a galaxy but, on a good day, helped someone remember they were part of one.

She would keep offering what she could.

To those who asked for it.

And those who never would, but needed it all the same.

It was all she could do.

For now.

---

Lt. jg Connie Montoya
Counselor
USS Guinevere

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