Unmapped Space

Posted on Fri Jul 25th, 2025 @ 2:25pm by Lieutenant JG Elen Rell & Sergeant Jace Morven

1,224 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388, set same evening as 'Sanctuary, Disrupted'

The doors hissed open and the ship’s background hum gave way to the steady thud of fists against leather. A metronome made of bone and purpose.

Elen paused in the doorway. The poor punch bag…honestly, she was starting to think it deserved a name. Maybe something gentle. Gerald. Or Bixby. Something that could offset the pounding it was currently enduring. Maybe draw a little face on it next time.

Although...probably not wise. Especially not with this particular Trooper.

He wasn’t punishing it, not really. There was no anger in the movement, no wildness. Just the kind of focus you got from someone who knew the exact weight of every strike and didn’t waste effort on anything else. It wasn’t therapy. It was calibration. Maintenance. Like her warp core checks, or the way she re-set her brain with yarn and rhythm.

She understood that kind of discipline. Not because it was hers...but because she’d spent a long time learning to respect it. Especially from him.

Her eyes found him and stayed there for a moment. Watching. Reading. Taking in the damp line of sweat at his collarbone, the way his foot braced just so. Power without flourish. Precision without apology. It was all stitched into him, movement by movement, like old muscle memory.

She didn’t interrupt.

But she knew he’d clocked her....that subtle shift of his head, just enough to track her movement, even if his hands didn’t stop. She padded across the floor and dropped into a cross-legged sprawl a safe distance away. Not because she was worried he’d stumble: he didn’t seem like the stumbling type…but because she had once tripped over a yoga mat and fallen into a junior officer’s armpit, and she wasn’t risking a repeat.

When the rhythm changed to something slower, more conscious, she let her voice drift in.

“So,” she said, casual as she could manage, fingers toying with the cuffs of her trousers, thumb brushing a loose thread. “I’m going to ask you a weird question. And I might need a reply that isn’t just a grunt...”

Jace didn’t stop right away. He landed one last strike, clean and deliberate before letting his fists fall.

He turned his head toward her, sweat dampening the side of his jaw, and gave her a long look. Not wary. Not welcoming. Just a pause with weight in it.

Then, a grunt.

Followed, after a beat, by: “No promises.”

His voice was low, like it had been sanded down by hours of silence, but there was something behind it. A thread of dry warning. Maybe amusement, a touch of that humour she was glimpsing in places. The kind of answer you gave to someone you didn’t mind being in the room.

“So, I met this guy,” Elen began, shifting where she sat, folding her legs beneath her like she was settling into a story. “Nice guy. One of those people who’s all…still water on the surface, rushing current underneath. Quiet-smart. Like...genius levels, but never says it out loud.” She glanced over at Jace. “He sort of hides. Said someone was tracking him. Security type. Deck 20.” A pause. “Since we don’t have Security, and...the way he described it sounded kind of...” her hand wobbled in a vague gesture, “...FGF-shaped. So. Was it you?”

Jace exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, just the quiet release of something heavier than breath. The air around him still held the weight of movement: sweat cooling on his skin, heart slowing in steady beats against his ribs, the afterglow of muscle pulled tight and released.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just turned back to the punch bag, resting one gloved hand against the leather; fingers spread, pressure low, like grounding out residual charge. His other hand curled slightly at his side, still tense from the last strike. “Wasn’t tracking him.”

A pause. Brief. Intentional. Long enough to weigh what came next. “Saw him once when I was mapping it. Intel. Possible spots for battle if we get boarded.”
His voice was level, matter-of-fact. Sweat had gathered at the hollow of his throat, soaked into the collar of his vest. He didn’t shift, didn’t pace...just stood there, still as a perimeter line.

“Left a ration bar.” He finally turned his head toward her. Met her gaze, briefly. Not closed. Just unreadable, that quiet stillness that always hung around him like armour. “Next time I came back, today, there was a data cube where I left it. Figured that was the message.” A shrug followed. Small. Efficient. The kind you could miss if you weren’t paying attention. “Not going back. It’s his territory now.”

But in his mind, he could still see it: the blanket, the cup, the dim light of the PADD against a drawn face. The shape of a nest, improvised and held together by will.

He’d known what it was.

That was why he left.

Elen nodded, the movement quiet. She watched him, taking it all in...not just the words, but the way he stood, the way he let her in just enough to answer. And for a second, something tugged in her chest: an awareness of what that cost might’ve been. Not pain, exactly. But effort.

So she lowered her eyes. Gave it back. A moment of silence, offered like space to breathe.

“I think he’s cleared out from Deck 20, for now anyway,” she said softly, thumb brushing the threadbare edge of her cuff. “I suggested Deck 4. Quiet. Untouched.” She paused. “Maybe don’t map that one. Let him keep it.”

Her eyes lifted...not long, just enough. A glance that meant what it said. “He’s not hiding from you. But I think being seen by you still scares him.” She managed a half-smile. “You see everything. And some people...aren’t built for that kind of attention.”

Jace didn’t look away. Not right away. He took in her words with the same stillness he gave to battlefield scans or pre-breach silence. It wasn’t cold. It was calibration. The slow mental work of setting things right.

His jaw shifted once, the faintest clench. Not anger. Not guilt. Just reflex. “Didn’t mean to make him feel hunted.” His voice was low. Quiet, but not flat. Like something lived under the words, even if it wasn’t ready to be shown.

He glanced toward the bag again, then back to her. “I just recognised the pattern. The blanket. The way he set it up. You only do that if you’ve been sleeping with one eye open too long.” A breath. Sharp. Controlled. “I figured if I gave it space, he could keep it.”

He shifted his weight slightly, boots settling with that deliberate economy he always had, not stiff, but soldier-still. Then added: “I won’t touch Deck 4. Won’t even map it.”

Then a pause, and a look that lasted half a beat longer than usual.

“Thanks for telling me.”

----

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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