Standard Operating Injury

Posted on Thu Jul 24th, 2025 @ 9:40am by Lieutenant JG Elen Rell & Sergeant Jace Morven

1,628 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388

For the record, Elen hadn’t done it on purpose.

She’d followed all the procedures. Or at least, a version of them. Not the book exactly, but a book…one with slightly dog-eared pages and the occasional doodle in the margins, probably authored by someone with a similar attention span and a healthy distrust of exploding panels.

So yes...she’d rerouted power before starting on the console. Gold star for safety, right?

Unfortunately, the backup system had decided to take creative liberties with her reroute and punch straight through the panel she’d had her right hand buried in.

Now, she didn’t get electrocuted. That was the good news.

The bad news? The material went from pleasantly ambient to surface-of-the-sodding-sun in about three seconds flat. She yanked her hand back with a properly inventive swear, the sort that would’ve made her dad proud and her stepmum raise a disapproving brow. No scream, though. Not her style. She’d been raised on Mars and trained in warp-core maintenance: pain wasn’t unfamiliar. She just added it to the catalogue of "learning moments."

Still, it smarted like hell.

She took a glance around, thankfully nobody nearby and got up, using her left hand to unravel the scarf she’d been wearing. It was one she’d knitted herself, of course. Soft, warm, excellent for emergency hand-wrapping. She winced as she wrapped it around the burn, cradling the injury as she made her way to the tucked-away alcove she favoured. Doors swished open. Empty. Good. Just the hum of the core, that deep, thrumming sound that always settled in her bones like a lullaby.

Once seated, she gingerly unwrapped the scarf. The burn wasn’t horrific, but the skin was an angry red, blisters already threatening. Definitely not great.

Could go to Sickbay. Cressida would absolutely give her that look…the one that said “I’m not angry, just disappointed, but also slightly cross.”

Could ask Alina. But Alina had a tendency to share things, not out of malice, just...accidentally. Something about the moment being too lovely not to mention. Drevas? He’d insist she go to Sickbay too. And he'd be right, of course. Thoughtful, responsible, wonderful. But not what she needed right now.

Niun? Out of the question. That would feel like inviting a cathedral into a utility closet. Same with the Commodore. And Gil would probably just blink at her and then get her sent to Sickbay anyway. Politely. But firmly.

Her fingers hovered over her combadge. Odd. She’d never called him before. Not directly. She’d looked for him, sure. Asked the computer now and then. Made detours. Learnt where he liked to lurk. But she’d never reached out. Not with her voice.

She hesitated, swallowed…and tapped the badge.

“Lieutenant Rell to Sergeant Morven. Could you come to Engineering at your earliest convenience?” A pause, then the words spilled out in a rush. “Got… err, something I need your help with.”

Silence. Or not quite. She thought she heard him — a breath? A click? But then... nothing.

She sank down beside the console, scowling at her hand like it had betrayed her. “Could at least have the decency to heal itself,” she muttered, then winced as it throbbed again.

One good hand. Just one. Not enough to reach her tucked-away dermal regenerator. Or the illicit numbing cream.

“Note to self,” she sighed, “find better hiding spots.”

The doors hissed open.

Her head snapped up.

He didn’t speak when he entered. Just the sound of boots…measured, muted. Heavy enough to register, light enough not to feel like a threat. Jace stepped inside, scanned the room once. No visible hostiles. Just a singed engineer, a knitted scarf, and the smell of something burnt.

He stopped a few steps away. Eyes flicked to her hand, then to her face. “…not weapons-grade,” he said, voice low. Not disapproval...just a note. A detail.

“Yeah…” Elen exhaled, the word dragged out on a wince, though she still managed a small, crooked smile. She was gripping her wrist, knuckles white from the effort of not hissing again. “Gotta admit, didn’t actually think you’d show up and…wait, is that an actual FGF belt kit?” Her eyes widened, her voice skipping over the pain as instinct and curiosity surged forward. “That’s so cool! Haven’t seen one in years. Thought they got phased out except for...you know, the serious types.”

He crouched beside her in one smooth motion, unhooking the compact triage pouch from his belt. It wasn’t new. Worn edges. Field marks. A stitched seam along one side.

His eyes met hers for a beat as he unsealed it. “It works,” he said, as if that explained why he still carried it. Then his gaze dropped to her hand. “Keep still.” It wasn’t barked. It wasn’t kind. It just was.

He pulled out a small dermal-regenerator, checked the calibration by reflex, then swabbed a coolant gel designed to pull heat and deaden pain over the worst of the burn. Quick. Efficient. The kind of thing you did in the five seconds between cover and return fire.

She hissed as the gel touched her skin…not loud, just sharp enough to register, and then watched, brows drawn, as he worked. His fingers moved with an ease that shouldn’t have surprised her but somehow did. Quick. Measured. Light, but not hesitant.

Of course he’d done this before. It was stupid to think otherwise. Still, something about the care in those few seconds…not fussy, not showy, just practiced, settled beneath her skin in a different way.

“You got lucky. No deep tissue damage. Dermis took most of it.” Jace’s voice was firm, but quiet, as he began working. He shifted closer without hesitation, boots settling into a grounded stance as he lowered himself beside her. One knee down, one foot braced: stable, balanced. Always ready to move if needed.

One hand took her wrist in a controlled grip. Not rough, but certain. The other moved the regenerator in smooth, practised arcs. He didn’t glance at the display. He knew the cadence by feel. It was the kind of burn easily managed in triage. Fine for surface trauma like this. Wouldn’t even leave a scar.

She had been very lucky.

“Breathe,” he said. It came quiet. Automatic. Like muscle memory from a hundred battlefield moments: grunts bleeding out, white-eyed and gasping…and never once said to himself.

He finished without ceremony. Let go of her hand and shifted back in one smooth movement, the kind that came from years of armour drills and shuttle floor extractions. He didn’t unfold so much as re-set into readiness, spine straight, shoulders loose but alert.

Then finally he looked up. His gaze flicked to her face, her eyes, held there. “Next time,” he said, “call someone before you melt your hand into a control junction.”

“Why call someone before when I could do it after?” Elen said, with a lopsided smile that tried to land somewhere between sheepish and cheeky. She flexed her fingers, watching the way the skin moved…still red, still tender, but no longer angry. Just a story-in-progress. Tomorrow, it’d be fine. She’d had worse. But not always someone to fix it.

She looked at him again as he packed the kit away, her voice quieter now. “Thanks. Really.” A pause, just long enough to hold meaning before it skittered off. “I owe you…tea. Or a fuse that doesn’t explode. Whichever bribe works best.”

She meant it lightly, like always. but her fingers had curled slightly in her lap, like they were holding something she hadn’t said aloud. Like she wasn’t quite used to people showing up when it hurt, and staying.

His eyes went to her. Not at the words, but the tone underneath them.

He shifted, slow and purposeful, settling into a seat beside her. Not close. Not facing her. Facing the door. Watching the space.

Guarding.

“Don’t owe me,” he said at last. The words came flat, but something about the cadence said it didn’t sit right with him. Like the shape of gratitude pressed against a part of him that didn’t know what to do with it. “You got hurt.”

“Part of the job,” Elen said lightly, then pulled a face. “Okay…not part-part of the job. No official Starfleet mandate says ‘please burn your hand on shift.’ But…it happens. Consoles, power couplings, the replicator on Deck 9…they all bite eventually.”

She looked at her hand again, then down at her knees. Her voice shifted. Not quieter, exactly, just…less light. “Sometimes I think if I just stay moving, patch the thing, fix the fault, find the burn before it blisters…maybe no one’ll notice the rest.”

There was a pause. Half a breath. She blinked, lips parting like she meant to say more.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her hands found each other in her lap and she gave the smallest shrug...one shoulder, a gentle lift. “...Still. Appreciate you coming.”

Jace gave a nod. Barely a movement, but it was there.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to fill the quiet. He didn’t know how to answer the part she hadn’t said. But he knew how to stay. How to sit with someone who didn’t want to be seen hurting.

And how to patch a burn.

---

Lt. JG Elen Rell
Acting Assistant Chief Engineer
USS Guinevere

&

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

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