Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cardassians…

Of course it’s Cardassians, why wouldn’t it be?!  The moment Mariner sees one aiming at her is the very instant her day somehow goes from bad to worse. Not that it started off great, of course- being called into the Captain’s quarters usually results in one of two things.

One. Captain Freeman informs her that she’s being sent to the brig- this usually ends with someone dragging her there.

Two. Something completely unrelated blows up into an argument that, in turn, gets her sent to the brig.

Turns out, there’s a third option- and it’s worse. Mariner- despite all her prayers to whatever Gods she knows and her mother’s suddenly severely lacking common sense- is issued a command .

Really, she should have just called in sick.

It looks like a pretty standard mission, at a glance- The planetoid Batraxxi VI, just at the outer edge of the goldilocks zone in a star system towards the Cardassian empire’s border, had come into Starfleet’s radar with some strange readings, readings that somehow sent them three weeks’ off course into unaligned space. 

Batraxxi VI, as it turns out, is a shitheap. The atmosphere is breathable, but it moreso resembles a sea urchin than anything vaguely planet shaped, meaning that the already cold planet consists of mostly snow-capped mountain ranges with ice-laden windstorms capable of turning a man into spaghetti in moments, meaning space-suits are required for this seemingly routine mission.

Furthermore the planet’s rotation is, well, fucking insane. It spins so quickly that a full day/night cycle only takes two hours, and, adding to the terrifying speed of the windstorms and making teleportation all but impossible, leaving them to descend onto its surface via shuttle. Because of course literal teleportation tech isn’t a match for a sufficiently windy spinning ball of ice.

Typical Starfleet- but that isn’t the worst of it. Batraxxi VI, at a glance, reminds her of Antarctica. Cold, and barren, and more than a little boring- I mean there aren’t even penguins. Instead a quick peek into the next valley reveals occupation of a different sort. 

As it turns out, Batraxxi VI, is a Cardassian pirate base. 

-

“Come on, come on! Get the fuck onboard the shuttle NOW!” Mariner roars, struggling to make her voice audible above the shriek of the wind between the mountains. They’re almost out- at the tail end of an hour long running retreat through winding valleys and caves filled with strange furry monstrosities (Turns out the planetoid does possess life after all!) they’re finally at the location of the Shuttle, halfway buried in snow it might be.

Phaser fire fills the air, and the space between them has turned to ice as the residual heat of their blasts sears the snow into water, which freezes in the minute delay between shots.

Three ensigns and her provide covering fire for the research time to board the shuttle, phaser beams launched back and forth at the general direction of eachother’s shots. It’s almost nice, getting shot at, the heat from the Phaser beams warming her slightly with every shot that whizzes by.

Pressed flat against the rock-face, she aims for the direction of a phaser which nearly struck the man next to her providing overwatch straight in the face, the beam falling silent moments after.

“I think I got one!”

“Nice shot!”

She can’t help the slight grin that spreads across her face at the sudden praise. It’s nice, being recognised in such a way.

Still, Mariner got a decent look at the Cardassian forces, and knows they’re more than outnumbered. They need to get out of here, and fast.

“On my command, stop firing!” she yells out over the comms, and the feedback from them all yelling her way nearly has her rip the badge off. 

“EVERYONE SHUT UP! They’re aiming for our phasers- so when I tell you, stop firing and make a break for it! Do you copy?”

Silence

"I Said Doyoucopy!"

A chorus of sir yes sir floods the channel. Looking over her shoulder, she can see snow and little else. The Shuttle’s lights are little but flecks in the snowstorm, but she can’t see the eye-bleeding yellow of the others anymore. “Alright, on three, two, one-”

The Cardassians stop firing.

“...Are they falling back?” asks one of the ensigns.

“Cardassians, no way!” another interjects

“Well-”

It’s amazing, how years of pretending to listen to the lectures of her commanding officers has given Mariner the ability to tune out people speaking- even shouting at her. Makes it so much easier to pretend the bickering ensigns on either side of her are just annoying gusts of wind, rather than men under her command.

It allows her to focus instead on the pass ahead, and the howling wind that whistles through the sky-scraper peaks on either side of it. Like the warble of some malformed bird it twitters along, leaving but brief pauses in the malformed song.

Brief pauses that give away the crunch of snow underfoot.

Mariner’s heart skips a beat.

“They’re charging us, RUN!” 

At once, they break cover, and a dozen yellow and purple beams crowd the air. It’s fifty yards to the shuttle, fifty yards of bare snow and shards of flying ice. It doesn’t take long for her to put together that they’re aiming for the shuttle, now. No doubt simply hoping to hit whatever is between them and the shuttle as a by-product.

Something tingles on her neck, and she ducks, letting her pony-tail take a hit that would have caught her straight on the spine.

The smell of burning hair fills her nose, disgusting enough to make her gag even in the middle of a firefight, but there’s not time to hurl abuse, just an ever pressing need to get the fuck out of here.

A few yards before the ship she turns, just as the first of the three ensigns makes it inside, firing as she retreats, nearly stumbling over a snowdrift as she slams back-first into the shuttle. “Come on, we don’t have all day!”

The second ensign scrambles inside clutching his arm moments later, no doubt sporting a nasty array of burns. If she’s lucky, the ice-cut on her thigh might be another good scar, should T’ana not try to remove it without her consent…

Wait…

She can’t see the third ensign anymore

“Ensign! Ensign come in!” she calls out over the comms. “Anyone seen Ensign Davies?”

“Sir…” this time the voice doesn’t come over the comms, instead from the hold, where the other Ensign looks at her, no, he’s looking at something else-

Mariner follows the line of his eye, and promptly forgets how to breathe.

There, already halfway buried in the snow, lays Ensign Davies, eyes open, and a circular hole burned through the center of his back, the snow across him bears track-marks that give a name to the so-called snow drift she nearly fell over just moments prior.

When, why, how-

“No, no no nonononononono,” the tears that well up in her eyes freeze, leaving her to almost blindly scramble in the snow towards him. “Get up, come on, get UP!”

She grabs hold of one of his shoulders, wrenching at it, but he won’t budge. “ENSIGN COME HERE, I CAN'T GET HIM OUT!”

“I already tried!” comes the reply. “He wouldn’t budge!”

“OF COURSE HE WON’T BUDGE HE’S FROZEN TO THE DAMN GROUND, NOW- AAH”

She’s cut off when a Phaser barely scrapes by her leg. Even still it’s enough to flash-melt her uniform to her skin. “Damn it! Ensign, that’s an order-”

Shoving a clump of packed snow against her wound, she fires again, this time hitting her mark, as two gray-skinned forms go limp before being swallowed by the gale in turn.

There’s the sound of footsteps, then, and she looks back to find the two other redshirts moving towards her. 

“Alright, now-”

“Sorry, LT,” the first says, cutting her off. “We’ve got to go!”

“On those fucking command-”

“The Captain’s!” The second cuts in again, and Mariner looks down dumbly to find her own combadge missing.

There are arms then, two pairs. They drag her off of Davies and into the ship, and though she should fight them, she wants to fight them, she lets them. All the while never taking her eyes off of the man’s own.

They throw her in the pilot’s chair and instinct takes over. She barely registers the on-board medic cutting away at the fabric of her pant-leg.

She barely notices anything at all, really. 

As Mariner pilots the shuttle into orbit past the maze of mountain peaks capable of swatting the Cerritos out of the sky like a gnat, she can only focus on one single thing.

His eyes were green.

-

“No, and that’s final.”

“But-”

“Lieutenant Jr. Grade Mariner- that is the last I’ll hear of it,” says Captain Carol Freeman, in her oh-so familiar captain voice that Beckett has never once found anything but grating. “I… understand your grievances, but I can't risk another team, much less continued aggression with the Cardassians.”

“Then make it volunteer only!” Beckett cuts in, raising her hand. “ I’ll go, and I know at least three others that will,” at her mother’s unconvinced look, she crumbles slightly. “He was my responsibility, I just… I just. I want his family to have something to bury.”

“Ensign Davies had no living relations,” comes Commander Ransom’s voice- hard, even if his eyes are kind. “And even if he did, reports state that a few hours were enough to almost bury the shuttle in snow- it has been a full day now, even if we could, there’s no guarantee we’d be able to find him-”

“THAT’S NO EXCUSE NOT TO FUCKING TRY!” she roars , rounding on Ransom.

His mouth shuts with an audible click, the finger jabbed into his chest still there by the time Beckett realizes just what she’s done. She half expects a visit to the brig, blinking up through the sudden tears in her eyes.

No, not here, not in front of them. 

“Even without the Cardassian interference, this was a difficult mission. I mean, hell. I’m impressed you even landed, much less got off that rock again, there’s a reason this was a special assignment.”

It’s subtle, but Mariner watches her mother freeze. “special… how?”

“Special in that the crew was picked both for competence and… effect on morale in the event of something going wrong-”

“Commander Ransom-” her mom hisses, and Jack freezes, eyes flicking between the two women in such a way that it might as well have been morse, for the message it sends is pretty clear.

Mariner wasn’t supposed to know about that tidbit, and for good reason, because now she’s really pissed off.

“Effect on morale…” Mariner mulls the words in her mouth, and finds she doesn’t like the taste at all . “You mean the ones nobody would miss, right?”

“Beckett, that’s not-”

“Then what? So you just picked the expendable ones- geez, what a message that sends, mom!”

It’s petty to see her mom flinch like this, but Beckett has always been good at that, twisting the knife as it goes. “Well I’m sorry for coming back in any case, then!”

“ They might have been picked as such,” comes her mother’s voice, with special emphasis on the ‘they’ bit, even if she’s only in a mood to halfway believe her. “You, however, were chosen because you excel in situations like this.”

The snort she lets out is not a pretty thing. “Yeah, and look how that turned out…”

“Beckett…” That’s, that’s not the captain's voice, that’s the mom voice. And Mariner, for her part, refuses to look up. She knows that if she does, she’ll break. “I picked you for this mission because I knew you would get it done!”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t, now did I…” Mariner says, and turns on her heel to leave, her mother’s voice follows her out of the room, but she ignores it, decades’ worth of practice paying off as she makes for her next destination

-

“...Did you hear about Mariner’s last mission?” Boiler asks in the middle of dinner, glancing over his Chili to find her seat conspicuously empty. “Heard things got really out of hand on that planetoid.”

“Yeah,” Tendi replies with a constipated frown. “Apparently there were some Cardassian pirates on the planetoid. We had to deal with phaser burns and frostbite at once, which is… surprisingly more difficult to handle than you’d imagine.”

“Yeah, I heard one of them didn’t make it off,” Rutherford cuts in then, and the silence is palpable.

“ What?!”

Tendi’s panicked shout draws half the cafeteria’s attention, but the Orion doesn’t care, too busy pestering Rutherford for information. Meanwhile, Boimler slides over to T’lyn who is still working on something on her PADD to ask the foremost question on his mind.

“So…. What are the chances Mariner is going to take this well?”

“Zero,” T’lyn interjects.

Boimler sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Yeah, thought as much- where is she?”

“Holodeck!” That's Rutherford again, half-heartedly fighting off Tendi, who is  halfway on the table trying to literally pry information out of the man. “I saw her storm in at least- not sure if she’s still in there!”

Well, the Holodeck is a start, better than nothing at least. “Alright, I’ll go check it out- T’lyn?”

“Understood.”

“Hey, mind helping me?” Rutherford calls out, still fighting off Tendi’s prodding assault.

Boimler, helpfully, scoots out of his seat and makes for the Holodeck, vaguely aware of T’lyn’s footsteps behind him as he makes for the Holodecks.

- 

They run into Ransom- almost literally- as they turn the corner towards Holodeck 3. Boimler skids to a halt just inches before most likely bouncing off of the Commander’s chest. “Oh, sir Commander Ransom sir!”

“Lieutenant Boimler, T’lyn,” he says, sneaking a look at the Vulcan over Boimler’s shoulder. I assume the both of you are here with regards to Lieutenant mariner?”

Oh Boimler so hates getting put on the spot. T’lyn merely raises an eyebrow in reply when he looks back at her for something to say, which makes turning back to the creased frown on Ransom’s face ever more awkward.

“I- uh, yes, sir! We heard something went wrong on the mission and wished to check up on our friend, just to make sure she’s alright!” he says, opting for the truth. “Wait… how do you know sir?”

“Because I’m here to do the same thing,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder at the Holodeck. “I don’t know what she did, but I can’t get in.”

“Oh that’s probably ru-” Boimler begins, before he bites back on possibly indicting Rutherford of (further) tampering with Starfleet property. “Rude- I don’t know, maybe? Maybe she just wants to be left alone?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t work like that lieutenant,” Ransom says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’ll be honest with you- if you make sure she doesn’t do anything insane. Like steal a shuttle to retrieve ensign Davies, or eject the Warp core onto the Cardassian base or something, alright?”

“Ensign Davies is dead?” Boimler hates that he only vaguely remembers the name. “I- I remember the name, vaguely.”

“Probably from karaoke night,” Ransom offers. “That man could sing a ballad.” 

“Indeed,” T’lyn says, popping up between them and scaring Boimler halfway to a heart attack. “his voice was… soothing.”

“Forgive me, Commander- but why are you looking out for Mariner? Did Captain Freeman ask you to check up on her?” it’s not like him to be so forward, but curiosity has its claws in him.

That, and the fact that whenever Mariner is involved, Boimler finds it that little bit easier to say the things he’d normally think best remain unsaid.

That being said, though. It takes about all the unwanted experience he has facing increasingly more terrifying aliens he’s gathered over his stay on the Cerritos to keep a straight back in the face of Commander Ransom’s quirked brow. 

“I- uh, I mean no respect, sir.”

Ransom just snorts, clasping him on the shoulder. “At ease, Boimler, I can forgive a worried friend a slip-up. One. ”

“yes sir I’msorrysiritwonthappenagainsir…”

“See to it that it doesn’t,” he says, taking a look at the Holodeck again. “As for your question, no. I am not here because Captain Freeman sent me here. I am here because Mariner is my responsibility, as I’m sure she’s told you, I have direct oversight on her- including anything that might adversely impact her.”

“Indeed, it would only be logical to assume the mission on Batraxxi VI to have adversely affected her mental state.”

Ransom gives the Vulcan a side-eye, but nods. “Losing someone in a mission is hard enough- when you’re directly responsible for them it’s even harder, but Mariner? What has she told you of her past?”

Boimler wants to answer, but finds he can’t. “A stint on DS9, some familiarity with Captain Riker, among other things. Is there something we should know?”

“Probably, though that’s her story to tell,,” Ransom says. “I’ve waited here for three hours already- I’m not likely to spend a fourth here. I could be filing reports, or working out, or both. Regardless, I can see she’s in good hands here… just tell her to report to me within 24 hours, alright?”

“Will do sir,” Boimler says, then, because he’s an idiot, he asks the one question you’re not supposed to ask an officer. “Does it get easier, losing men?”

As it turns out, whatever Gods- or God-like entities- in the cosmos exist, are smiling down on Boimler today, because Ransom does not turn around and feed him his teeth, instead limiting the expression of his discomfort with a snort that sounds almost wistful…

“No, it never does. But if you ever hope to make captain, it’s a feeling you best end up getting used to,” he says, in a rare show of commanding competence not likely to be repeated this century. 

No sooner has Ransom turned the corner, does Mariner step from the Holodeck. Sweaty, smiling, and altogether surprised to see the both of them. “Hey guys, what are you doing here?” she says, in an altogether tired but happy tone.

“We uh- we were looking for you!” Boimler says. “We heard about the mission, and…” he trails off, not sure what to say, but thankfully T’lyn does.

“Lt. Boimler expressed concerns with regards to your mental state- I agreed, though you seem… more centered than I expected.”

Mariner snorts, and Boimler can’t help but notice that the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I just spent the last three hours blasting Cardassians, I’m fine. Though it’s sweet for both of you to check up on me!” she says, turning on her heel. “I’m off to the sonic showers, see you later!”

“Wait, Ransom said he- aaand she’s gone,” he says, watching her turn the corner without breaking stride. “She seems… off, doesn’t she?”

“Correct,” T’lyn agrees, which means he’s not crazy, because T’lyn notices everything. “She is lying.” 

-

-End log,”

The computer gives an affirming beep, the mission report joining the data banks of the Cerritos, a copy being shipped off to Starfleet command for clarity’s sake. The mission on Batraxxi VI officially labeled a failure, with the planetoid itself being marked as a danger zone and known pirate hideout. 

In her nearly fourty year tenure with Starfleet, Captain Carol Freeman has had to deal with many things, the death of crewmembers an unfortunate truth of the line of duty. Shaxs’ death notwithstanding, it's always a somber affair, though time has hardened her to it. 

Things go wrong, unforeseen consequences cost lives, sheer dumb luck or simple malfunctions. At least it’s not another war, the Galaxy has been relatively peaceful these past few years. She remembers the Dominion war firsthand, and half a dozen conflicts before that. Bajor, even the odd skirmish with Klingons… those were bloody times.

Absent-mindedly, she looks over the file again, pausing as her daughter’s name looks back at her. Standard procedure, after all, is to include the mission’s highest ranking officer. Below that the mission status blinks back an ugly red, reading [FAILED] in bold lettering.

Below that still, reads the loss report. [KIA: 1] 

She frowns, remembering her daughter’s words. A twinge of annoyance seeps in at the now-expected disregard for rank or authority. Honestly it’s a wonder any of her officers still respect her, with how much of a free reign she gives Mariner. 

Still, there’s something that doesn’t sit right with her. It’s not an uncommon occurrence for Mariner to defend her friends, because for all her many, many flaws as a member of Starfleet, Carol can't help but be proud of the fact the girl she raised has such strong morals. But ensign Davies wasn’t a friend of hers, he was a Starbase washout with a foul temper and six demerits to his name, her ship is full of those at this point.

They would have gotten along like a house on fire, in retrospect. Still the mention of Davies brings her back to Mariner, and her daughter’s… she can’t quite find the word, in fact. She can’t quite remember the last time she’s seen her daughter so worked up. Even after Carol threw her off of the ship, a particularly dark day in their relationship that she’s sure Mariner still holds a grudge about, she seemed more calm.

In fact, she seemed almost resigned when no-one had believed her.

Even though she manages to shake the thought, she can’t help but sigh, pushing herself away to pull a small flask of Romulan ale from one of her trophies.

Her daughter isn’t the only one capable of hiding contraband aboard Starfleet vessels, after all. 

It burns like fire going down, and the less said about the taste, the better, but it's a numb heat that spreads across her body, even down to her toes, stilling her fraying nerves, even as the thought of her daughter lingers.

They used to be closer, upon a time. Back when Mariner still attended the academy they were thick as thieves- Alonzo and his daughter had never quite had as close a reaction, Admiralty duties having seen her husband miss one too many birthdays to be completely forgiven for, but Mariner had never seemed to mind.

That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? 

It was terrifying , when the Dominion war broke out, far too soon after Mariner’s graduation into an Ensign. She remembers well the restless nights pouring over casualty report after casualty report, hoping against hope that her daughter wasn’t amongst them.

She wasn’t… unaware of what her daughter had gotten up to during the war, her husband’s connections seeing the both of them relatively well informed, but she still vividly remembers the thought that first entered her head when she saw Mariner again.

Her daughter was alive, but the girl she’d raised was dead- instead there was a young woman missing the light in her eyes that had taken her so, so long to find again, and even then it was different. She was angry, erratic, bouncing around from ship to starbase and back again.

Both their reputations took a hit because of it, and that hurt. It felt like a betrayal, especially when nothing they tried seemed to work. No therapist would take her for a second session, no counselor could get through to her, and no punishment could get her to behave like the girl Carol had known.

It was an ugly truth, and not something she was proud of, but it was the truth regardless. Even in those first years, when Carol still tried to reach out, when she was still grasping for the girl that was gone… she’d always known.

The worst part? She had no idea if there was anything left to fix between them, half the time. They were on better terms now than in the years before, but that meant little, didn’t it? 

Mariner never talked about what happened during the war- Freeman has heard her joke about some things, maybe even divulged a story or two, but everything she knows of her daughter’s tenure has been second hand, and too much of it hidden beneath black ink. 

Another memory passes her by, drifting up with the waft of intoxication that slowly takes her over. She’s not sure how Beckett manages so much at once.

Still, she takes another sip, because it’s not a pleasant memory. It was one of those rare occasions where all three of them were on leave together, not that it mattered, because they spent most of those 14 days arguing, with Alonzo trying to mediate as best he could and not really making any headway in either direction.

She remembers the 11th night as if it were the day before, and how a single comment turned into a screaming match that saw both parties angry. She remembers hearing Mariner go out, and then come back in sometime around 4.

Despite her better judgment, she remembers getting out of bed, too angry to sleep and preparing herself to confront her inebriated daughter and likely have a second shouting match.

What ended up happening was her standing halfway hidden at the top of the stairs, watching her daughter softly weep into a pillow. For all Mariner is loud, and over the top, she’s never been one to bawl. Not one for crying at all, really, she still remembers an 11 year old Mariner breaking her leg during a football match and cursing rather than crying. 

There’s bits, figments, words that pass her by like memories. She vaguely recalls the mention of an old friend, and a muttered litany of apologies. 

She remembers walking away, unsure what to do, and wonders how things might have been different had she been brave enough to make herself known. 

That’s the thing with being Starfleet- with being human , she supposes- you collect regrets like you do scars, and eventually you’ll have a lifetime’s worth.

She just worries her daughter has too many already.

Chapter Text

There’s an air of silence around the Lower Decks that Mariner is well familiar with, it’s one she’s participated in too many times to keep track of. Weaving through the corridors that have been her home for so much of her tenure aboard Starfleet ships, she sees faces new and familiar in about a hundred shades of sorrow.

Except Delta shift, but that’s not for some dark dick-headed reason. The simple truth is that Delta shift is asleep, and rare is the person that looks sad when they sleep.

She exchanges a few words with Jennifer, the conversation awkward- they usually are, after the whole situation regarding their break up, and spots Barnes lighting candles with Castro.

There are others she recognises, many of which greet her kindly or simply ignore her, some stare, and someone in the crowd loudly wonders if she’s been demoted again, saying something about her bunk still being free.

She wishes

She hears a wave of hushing, and bites back on a snort, knowing the silence for what it is. A way to pay respect, when a proper funeral is unable to be held. By now the news must have travelled through the Cerritos, and she almost wishes the pity directed her way were anger instead. 

Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair. Mariner knows the difference between pity and sympathy, she’s been around her mom long enough to learn that, at least, but still. She’s looking for a bunk, his bunk, and she’s about had her run of the whole Lower Decks in search of it. If it doesn’t show up soon, she’s going to have to check out Delta shift, and that’s going to be a hassle, because as much as the rivalry still exists, she’s not going to go around shining a flashlight around in front of sleeping ensigns.

Well… except for maybe a few. 

It’s strange how much this place still feels like home, even with her fancy new room and everything, wandering these hallways makes her feel more… herself. Sure not having to deal with all the snoring is nice, and if she were still in a relationship the privacy would be one hell of a boon, but sex aside, this is still the Cerritos at its most basic.

The Bridge crew and the officers might be its head, but these people, they were its heart. And speaking of, her own skips a beat when she finally winds through the end of the corridor, passing by the communal sonic showers and the warning signs about turning them up too high, a sign to which she proudly contributed.

After all, a life without breaking a few rules was no life at all, but a life where they have to make rules with you in mind, now that’s one worth living-

That train of thought and many others like it come to a screeching halt as she comes up to the end of the corridor, right where the view was best, and the quiet hum of the nacelles drowned out the tinnitus, did she find the bunk she was looking for.

Well, if ever the universe decides to actually kick her in the ovaries, she’ll know what it feels like. But there, at the edge of the corridor, on the top right bunk she’d called home for quite a while, another name glares back at her.

Rogiére Davies.

It’s bad form to look in another Ensign’s locker.

She does it anyways. The first thing that comes tumbling out is an old- scratch that- an ancient bit of music history, an old vinyl record that looks well maintained and damn near original, if its sleeve is any consideration. 

There are a few other knick-knacks in there, a yoyo, spare clothes, romulan ale- nice . She's just picking through a few letters when a voice startles her. 

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing!” Beckett startles with a yelp, almost dropping the vinyl before managing to catch it at the last second. She turns, awkwardly clutching the thing to her chest, and comes face to face with a very angry ensign in a towel two sizes too large for her.

Wait, no, scrap that. She’s just that small. A stocky, red-haired, grimy little thing that glares up at Mariner like a Sehlat with a tooth-ache. Maybe it’s just the fact she’s been surprised, or the sheer ferocity that takes her aback, but it takes Mariner a few moments to respond, a few moments that seem to fray at the other woman’s rapidly shrinking patience.

“Davies was an asshole, but that’s still his stuff, do you hear?” she says in a sing-song tone, arching her back and crossing her arms, tapping a foot against the cold floor. “So please put it back and fuck off, would you kindly.”

The irreverent anger is nice, actually, if a bit shocking to see it directed her way. Mariner looks to the vinyl again, reasoning it must be hiding her pips, and tucks it back into his locker before facing the woman again, holding up her hands in a gesture of goodwill. “I’m not here to steal anything, I swear…” she trails off, hoping the other woman would catch the hint.

“Tara Jones,” she introduces herself, rolling her eyes. “And if you’re not here to steal Davies’ stuff, then why are you here?”

This time, it's Mariner’s time to cross her arms. Her eyes fall to the floor, suddenly unable to meet Tara’s own. A sigh leaves her, shoulders slumping against some sudden weight. “I was on that mission too- leading it, in fact… were you a friend of his?”

When next she looks up, it's Tara’s turn to look away. Her voice is a small thing when it answers, almost unsure of itself. “...Something like that.”

Mariner didn’t think it was possible to feel worse- but that’s apparently not true. The anger makes a whole lot of sense now, at least. Mariner remembers what she was like after the news of Sito’s death, and the picture isn’t a pretty one.

Another memory passes her by, this one a lot more recent, and it features a klingon’s blunt words beating an ugly truth into her thick skull. “Will you tell me about him?”

Tara blinks. “Right now?”

“Sure, why not. You got anything better to do right now?” Mariner asks, knowing full well the answer was likely no. “You don’t look dressed for the bar, and if you’re looking to scoop at the Holodecks, my advice is don’t, that’s a whole new level of ethical and emotional bullshit that nobody should be dealing with.”

“Well, I could be hanging out with my friends?”

Mariner gestured at the rest of the corridor and its empty bunks. No friends around meant she was heading to sleep. Long, lonely nights of staring up at the grey metal above your head because the darkness wore a lost friend’s face were something Mariner was intimately familiar with. “What’s the worst that can happen, eh?”

Predictably, Tara shakes her head, and Mariner’s grin turns impish, her footing found again. She looks over Boimler’s old bunk and feels an idea forming.

“This your bunk?” she asks, sitting down before Tara can confirm, having glanced glanced her name off of the display next to it, finding the place just the same as when her best friend left it, denty and all

“It sure is, shittiest bunk on the whole ship, I mean look at the ceiling of it!” she grouses, making Mariner laugh, which earns her another strange look. “Did I say anything funny?”

“You really did,” Mariner tells her as she sits down. “Remind me to tell you how Denty got there.”

“Dent-y?”

“Long story,” Mariner says, shrugging. “Let’s just say some people aboard the Cerritos are really bad at naming stuff and leave it at that. I mean, a few months back there was this killer AI that we had to deal with- gone rogue experiment from one of the guys down in engineering, shaped like our insignia? That thing was called bad-gy, if you can believe it.” 

Mariner snorts to herself, the whole situation funny in hindsight, and when she tunes back in to the here and now, she finds ensign Tara looking at her like she’s gone absolutely insane. 

“...Who are you?” Tara finally asks. And yeouch , it shouldn’t hurt that much not to be known everywhere she goes. She really has to keep up appearances it seems.

“You’ve not been on the Cerritos for long, have you?” she says with a grin, offering a hand. “The name’s Beckett Mariner, now tell me about Davies..”

--

As second in command of the Cerritos, Ransom has to worry for two. Himself, and his captain. That’s no attempt to disparage Captain Freeman, he would follow her into hell and back, but it’s the truth.

Now, however, he feels he’s worrying with Captain Freeman in a wholly different way, and that’s concerning. 

The door opens with a beep, and in steps doctor T’ana, looking somewhat more haggard than usual. “Doctor, how are you?”

“Sleep-deprived, behind on about half a dozen analyses, and unsure why the fuck you called me in here at the ass end of my shift- was it Donovan again? I swear if he went bitching to HR again I’m gonna-”

“It’s not about Donovan,” Ransom assures her, making a mental note to check up just exactly which Donovan the doctor is referring to. “I’m compiling a report with regards to the mission at Batraxxi VI, and I just wanted some supplements with regards to the team’s conditions,” he gestures for the chair. “Please, take a seat.”

T’ana sits down, eyeing him all the while. It’s obvious to her this isn’t some routine visit, but just not what exactly it’s about. “What can I say, pretty minor stuff- save that other kid, of course,” a beat of shared silence passes between them. “Cuts from rocks, a twisted ankle, frostbite and phaser burns. Nasty combo, those, but nothing a few dermal regenerators couldn’t fix, except of course for that… ah. ”

Well, Ransom supposes, You don’t write several award winning academic papers without being able to put one and two together. “Yes, it’s about Mariner.”

“If I had a strip of latinum for every time I’d heard that particular comment, I’d be able to turn DS9 into a personal scratching post,” the doctor groused, but seemed pliable to sharing more information.

“You and me both,” Ransom agrees. “Except for the scratching post bit, I was thinking more luau shrine, you know, hit the beach, get some ladies-”

“Get to the fucking point!”

“yes, yes! of course.” There are few people that scare Jack Ransom like Dr. T’ana does, and a not insignificant portion of that fact is the fact that she knows all his allergies, is the only person qualified to treat most of him, and the fact that she will make him beg for them if sufficiently pissed off. “As Chief medical officer, you have a… unique insight on the dossiers of our crew, including Mariner’s own.”

“You mean that crapshoot of a laundry list?” She says, incredulous. “You name it, she’s had it. It’s almost impressive. Only record I’ve ever seen with more injuries on it is Shaxs, and I’m responsible for a few of those myself!”

“Gross,” he mutters under his breath, filing the rest of that sentence for further reading once he manages to separate it mentally. “That’s all well and good, but I’m talking mental problems here, anything on those.”


“Sure,” she says, picking at a thread in her lab coat. “Lotta referrals, and I’m talking a lot of referrals. She’s about seen every shrink in Starfleet, all singing the same tune, mostly. It seemed whatever they tried, nobody could get through to her.” 

Yup, that sounded like Mariner alright. He’d overheard a conversation between Captain Freeman and Migleemo once, about this exact thing. It was weird hearing the Cerritos’ counselor actually frustrated for a change. “Given the… traumatic nature of the events on Batraxxi VI, I’m assuming an evaluation of their mental health was part of standard proceedings?”

T’ana, as expected, bristles at the unintended jape. “Of fucking course I did, what do you take me for, an amateur? Most of ‘em were immediately scheduled for counseling, you sure picked a bunch of fresh meat for the grinder there.”

Not a decision he particularly liked, but one he’d seen the logic in, Ransom would admit. Competence was of course the main factor, but there had been other, less noble ones too. From what he could tell, Freeman had prepared for casualties in advance, but that didn’t mean it stung any less. “And what about Mariner, did you send her over to Migleemo’s?”

“Nope, complied with everything, passed the psych eval with flying colours, even thanked me on the way out, which was… pretty fucking disconcerting if you’ll ask me,” the Caitian blinked, then groaned halfway to a growl. “Yeah, something’s definitely wrong with her. What are you thinking?”

He leaned forward, tucking his closed fists under his chin. “Tell me doctor, what do you make of a Dominion war veteran that exhibits clear signs of PTSD yet has never once been flagged for such issues?”

T’ana shrugged, then frowned. “Knowing Mariner, someone exceptionally good at pissing off even the toughest shrink… and equally as good at pretending. Shit, do you want me to do a re-eval?” 

He’d like nothing more, but Ransom didn’t become commander of a Starfleet vessel by virtue of delegation. And even though Mariner was equal parts his protege and his problem , that didn’t mean he hadn’t developed an inexplicable fondness for the young woman that bordered on the unprofessional.

It had taken a pretty damn long time for him to want to admit it, but she was Starfleet through and through, and below the now ocean of demerits, she’d been a star pupil back in the academy. Yet now that bright flame was guttering in the wake of something they had all missed, and he could only wonder how many more it was going to take for it to be blown out completely.

“Hold off on that for the moment, Doctor. I’m aiming to have a conversation with her myself later in the week- if she’ll stop avoiding me, that is, in the meantime I’d like a full rapport of prior evaluations, whatever you can dredge up.”

T’ana raised a brow. “Like, the full thing? That’s a lot of work.”

“Just anything you find noteworthy,” he says. “Poke around a bit?”

“You do realize that’s more work, right?” T’ana tells him, springing from her chair. “Un-fucking-believeable. I’ll do it as soon as I have the time, anything else?”

“Nothing Doctor, you can go,” he said, but T’ana was already halfway out the door, leaving him with a lot to think about. 

--

It’s halfway to the sonic showers from another long session in the Holodeck, that Mariner quite literally runs into Shaxs. She’s not sure how it happened, given he’s like, what? Seven foot tall? Taller? But he’s suddenly looming over her, and her ass joins the long list of sore body-parts she now sports. 

“Ah, Mariner, sorry!” he says, hauling her up to her feet by the collar of her shirt like she were an unruly cat- or cub, most likely, Shaxs does love his bears. “Lost in thought?”

“What, me? Nah…” she scoffs, taking a moment to crack her lower back. “Just came back from a few hours in the Holodeck, didn’t see you turn the corner, sorry- what, do I have something on my face or something?” she asks, watching him frown.

“Mariner. I’ve been standing here for five minutes,” he says, holding up a PADD infuriating worry blatant in his good eye. “Also, there is no corner.”

“Whaaat? Of course there’s a corner, it’s right by…” she trails off, looking past Shaxs to find that, indeed, there is no corner to speak of. “Wow, huh. My bad, must have taken a wrong corner, was looking for the Sonic showers.”

“At Cetacean ops?” 

At her confusion, Shaxs takes a step back, revealing a wall placard that indeed points towards Cetacean ops, meaning she’s gone completely the wrong way. “Oh, wow , I must have been more out of it than I thought, kicking Cardassian ass will do that to you, I suppose?”

Were it anyone else, they might have been worried, but Shaxs was on the ground, fighting the Cardassian occupation, before Mariner had even enlisted. He just laughs, swatting her on the back and nearly sending her straight into the wall. He’s holding back, of course, but it still stings something fierce. “Fine training! Nothing better than kicking a fascist’s teeth in! Maybe I can join you next time!”

“Haha, maybe!” Mariner says, almost making herself sound convincing. “Not today, though. I reek, but say, would you happen to know where next we’re headed? I’ve got some Vintage Springwine somewhere around here, stuff’s older than you, if you’ll believe it.”

She knows, of course, that they’ve got a cargo run upcoming that will see them pass Klingon space- close enough that she might be able to sneak a Transmission past the logs and ping around for some favors. Who knows, maybe the Che’Ta would be in range?

Still, bribes are always handy, and the brain- be it Bajoran, Klingon, or Human, has a funny way of categorizing memories. Extend an offer of your most premiere stock of contraband, and suddenly that’s all it will remember. 

The frown he sends her way is twelve shades of disapproving, but he seems interested at least. Interested enough to not immediately throw her into the brig, which would be bad for many reasons. The main one being he’s escorted her to the brig so many times it’s become second nature, and thus would make him ask again, but also… she’s on a streak, and she’s not keen on breaking it. 3 months without a brig visit is the longest she’s gone in years. 

“... Tulgana IV, leave it in my room, make sure I don’t see you, and if you interrupt something, that’s not my fault,” he says finally, giving her one thunderous pat goodbye as he shoulders past her and into Cetacean ops proper. 

-

Sonic showers are nice and all, but having your own Sonic shower is a whole new level of neat. Even Mariner is big enough to admit there are some boons to this whole promotion schtick after all, besides, it means she can put it up as high as she wants without complaints or causing seizures or something.

Speaking of. Mariner turns the shower up another increment, raking her fingers through her hair in an attempt to dislodge the sweat and tangles. Holodecks might be fake, but the sweat you worked up was real.

The increase in volume is all the warning they give, like the thrumm of an antique microwave in some of those old baking shows her dad used to love. It’s almost soothing, in a way, drawing her into a yawn. Yet when she moves to raise her hands, something catches her eye. Just there in the corner of her vision, a raised patch of skin, about an inch across, there in the middle of her forearm, just between the radius and the ulna.

It’s a scar, and it actually takes her a bit to figure out which particular one that is. Phaser burn? Nah too irregular- yet too circular for a knife wound- a memory resurfaces, and Mariner almost kicks the shower up another two increments in her little celebration dance. “Oh I remember you, you little sucker.”

It was the tusk of a Chalnoth that made that particular scar- back during some gray ops shit. Turns out repeatedly punching someone in the face when they have massive tusks, a carnivorous diet, and a gape that can pretty easily wrap around a thigh will lead to nasty results. The smaller teeth had made incisions too, but they had faded in time, leaving just The tusk scar.

Honestly Mariner is halfway confused how she even forgot that one in the first place, given she probably still has the tusk somewhere. One does not bite Mariner (without her consent), and retain their dental stability.

Still, that first scar, like so often, leads her down the rabbit hole. There’s the one on her foot from where Ransom stabbed her, and a set of cuts along her left hip from some nasty scaled rainbow panther-thing half a decade back, and-

She freezes, eyes pinned on the meat of her thigh, where a circular mark stands pale against her skin. 

-just hi- an inch higher- femoral- 

The voice of her old medic- a nice Bajoran who died with twelve phaser shots to the back- rattles her like a physical blow, slamming shut her sternum, sending her staggering on her feet as icy fingers rake up her skin

Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck fuck. 

Her throat goes dry, hoarse. Her lungs beg for air that doesn’t come, like flowers withering under a hose pinched shut by some bony hand. The room shakes, then spins, and her legs buckle, sending her to the ground.

-discovered-  leave them-

The humm of the Sonic shower turns to the droning approach of a horde of locusts, and the room seems to shrink with her, collapsing, falling, buckling inward. The exit is both to her left and right, and her hands can't decide which one to reach for, they  can't reach for anything, trembling as they are. 

What’s happening, what the fuck is going on?! 

She thrashes against whatever has hold of her. Gas, spores, mind-fuckery? As the world twists and spins on its axis, bending like bio-film pulled over a wound. 

- Breached the deck-  -sucked out into-  -34-

Her fingers claw at the cold ground, sending her scuttling backwards along the floor until her back hits the far wall, and the sonic device pressed against her skin is a sensation she feels in her teeth . Through it all, her vision blurs. Not with a lack of oxygen or some strange concoction in the air, but the tears that well up in her eyes, a low, groaning sob following them out into the cold air of the shower.

Her hand finally, finally slams against the shower’s off button, turning off the shower and lights with a sound like a plasma grenade arming, leaving her to weep softly in the darkness. 

Chapter Text

In her… eventful tenure of the Cerritos, T’lyn has made many observations. Some to send back home for further study, and many, many more for personal study. In doing so, many things have been made known to her, including, but not limited to: 

Commander Ransom’s pre-eminent love for a certain cadre of earth music from the early 21st century, to which the euphemisms she has been able to garner mean something akin to ‘popular’ music, which is a strange way of categorizing music.

The mutually unobservant tension between Rutherford and D’vana which has proven… interesting to deal with, especially given their apparent compatibility, to which neither party seems any more aware in the time she has observed them. To this end, further observation may yet be required.

Captain Freeman’s continuous preference towards maintaining order and efficiency is a commendable thing. Yet T’lyn’s time aboard the Starfleet vessel under her command has made it apparent that these principles, though decidedly Vulcan, are incompatible with the general personage aboard the Cerritos, much to her eternal frustration.

Most of these observations have come without intent or purposeful study, merely showing themselves the natural by-product of life aboard the Cerritos alongside T’lyn’s quiet nature, which has allowed her on multiple occasions to overhear or go unnoticed in the midst of conversations not meant for her ears.

Of course, those logs were purged immediately afterwards, but it is one such situation wherein she finds herself currently.

In the midst of applying a dosage of Hypospray to a security officer hit with a Phaser blast accidentally set too high for the regular training exercises, T’lyn finds herself suddenly startled by Dr. T’ana’s sounds of frustration, the chief medical officer aboard the Cerritos evidently having found something particularly vexing.

She re-submits the Hypospray and watches the Caitian doctor storm out of her office, anger visible in her eyes as she stalks back and forth in front of her open door. “Holy fuck! Yeah no shit this is seven shades of bad. No wonder the kid has issues… shit. Well good luck Ransom, I’m not going to be the one to tell the captain all of this.”

That alone was suspicious enough- but the look Dr. T’ana sent her way when finally realizing T’lyn’s presence in the room gave enough away for her to make an informed estimation of the person being referred to, which was most curious. 

She would inquire about Mariner later.

-

The trip to Tulgana ended up taking 2 weeks, courtesy of a few interim missions handed down from the admiralty, alongside an Ion storm that saw them having to take several detours, and in that time, Boimler had grown increasingly worried for Mariner.

The first- and by far most noticeable part of changes following ‘the mission’ as they had taken to calling it, not wanting to bring up the current and persistent source of Cerritos rumors where she might have an ear for them, was the amount of hours she was logging in the Holodecks.

Every day- or at least as near to every day to not really make a difference, she’d disappear into the Holodeck for a few hours and come out smelling like old socks, foregoing her showers for the communal ones, which drew a few confused looks, but not many, it was Mariner after all.

Sitting in the Cafeteria, sans T’lyn who had been called into the Sick bay, and Mariner, likely still elbow-deep in some alien’s chest cavity by now, he broached the subject and asked for their input. 

Tendi had suggested she might have fallen in love with a Hologram, and Rutherford had immediately grown worried, scouring all the Holodecks for any fragments of rogue AI, but Boimler doubted both of their stories.

“Mariner wouldn’t fall in love with a Hologram… again,” he added, before gulping at the realization he’d let slip a secret told when she’d gotten drunker than usual following the whole Locarno fiasco. “Please don’t tell her you heard it from me.”

The sudden, looming threat of grievous physical injury aside, the conversation progressed amicably, Rutherford and Tendi once again taking center-stage pending Mariner’s current Holodeck session ending, allowing him to think some more on what was happening.

It wasn’t just the Holodeck, that alone might have been her letting off some steam, but there were other things. The tiny sort, like how she was fidgeting, but not in a Mariner way- more nervous, if the word even applied to her. A few times he’d caught her staring off into the middle distance, which was-

“-Whaddup Boims, whoa calm down!”

Boimler wasn’t proud of the sound he made when he jumped up and found Mariner suddenly grinning at him not a foot from his face, sweat on her brow and a smirk on her face. “Mariner, can you please stop doing that?!?”

“Wow, what’s got you so jumpy- did you catch Shaxs and T’ana in the Holodecks again?”

Trying desperately not to dwell on that memory, he sends Mariner a look, one that has her frowning. “What- what is it? Do I have something in my teeth, or?”

“No, you’re fine- it's more the fact I don’t think they’ve had the opportunity to, with how much time you’re spending in there,” he says, drawing a raised eyebrow from his friend.

“I mean, yeah? I’ve been working out a bit more. Cardio, strength training, you know the like- you should join me sometime!”

“You mean that Cardassian prison with the copy of me still programmed in- the same one you had us walk past six times?!” Look Mariner might be allowed to be pissed off at his Titan escapade, but he’s allowed to be angry about… just all of that.

“Oh come on, I told you I forgot to take it out- if you’re that bothered we can take another route, I’ve wanted to try the garbage ducts-”

“No offense, but most people don’t consider breaking out of blacksite penitentiaries a workout,” he says, and almost wants to ask how she has such a detailed Holo-sim of a Cardassian prison, but he saw the way she flinched when he mentioned them earlier, and he knows better than to pick at that particular wound.

Tendi, unfortunately, has no such scruples. “How did you even get it that detailed? I mean, I only saw a Cardassian prison once, and that was during a hostage exchange, back, before…” she trails off, and it’s a coin-flip if its Tendi’s own sour feelings towards her past or the ugly, ugly look on Mariner’s face that leads her to drop that topic.

“Yeah, same,” she says. “Some prisoner exchange back near the end of the Dominion war- we got some good scans of the place, whatever-” Another shrug and she’s off for the Replicators, giving the three of them a chance to exchange a few hushed words.

“There is definitely something up with Mariner,” Boimler states, and the other two nod.

“I don’t think I’ve seen a glare like that since I refused to take- oh never mind,” Tendi says, as Rutherfod busies himself clicking through a few functions on his implant, drawing their attention.

Boimler sneaks a glance at the line, reasoning they have about a minute before Mariner comes back. “What are you doing?”

“-Elevated heart-rate, cortisol and adrenaline levels, alongside a whole buttload of lactic acid. If I didn’t know any better, she’s in fight or flight mode.”

Tendi gasps, looking ready to tackle Mariner in an apologetic hug. “Oh my gosh, did I do that?”

Boimler shakes his head at the same time that Rutherford plants a hand on her shoulder. “No, from what I’m seeing these levels pre-date her coming here. Save a minute spike in adrenaline and heart rate, none of this is your fault.” 

“Oh, that’s good,” Tendi says, and then freaks. “I mean ,well, not good- its bad, really, but like, bad in a good way?” 

Both men nod in understanding, and Mariner soon slides back into the booth, a tall glass of something- fruity- if the smell is any indicator clutched in her one hand. A bowl of chili and some of that hot sauce that makes Boimler’s throat swell up even looking at it in the other.

“Relax,” Mariner says. “It’s Synthehol, long island iced tea. I’m saving the hangover for when we’re at Tulgana- speaking of, who’s excited to get fucked up!”

That draws a cheer from somewhere else in the cafeteria- and both Tendi and Rutherford seem amenable, but Boimler can’t help but frown, which earns him a punch from Mariner. “Oh, yeah, of course- can’t wait to Try Klingon Bloodwine, again…”

“Let’s see if you can keep it down this time,” she teases in turn, shooting him a wink that has him feeling a little better. 

Who knows- going out with Mariner is nothing if not entertaining at least. Never mind that it’s usually terrifying and somewhat traumatizing to boot, it’s at least bound to be better than their last trip to Tulgana IV, he’s not ashamed to admit that particular day was a memorable one, and that he still heard Hoo’mon in his dreams on occasion. 

“We are staying away from little Qo’nos, though,” he warns, and Mariner just laughs.

“Of course, tell me, how does Chalnothtown sound?”

Somehow, that is so much worse .

-

Shore leave on Tulgana IV has slowly become a Cerritos staple, and with good reason. It’s a bustling hub of culture and diversity- the very picture of what Starfleet aims to foster amidst the smorgasbord of species the Galaxy has to offer- but Captain Freeman isn’t interested currently.

Never mind the dangers that come with too openly fraternizing with the rest of one’s crew- she knows firsthand how a few drunken words can irreparable skew the image one might have of their commanding officer, having had to listen to far too many private anecdotes back when she was still a Lieutenant- but the fact remains that she’s better served relaxing aboard a freshly quiet ship.

California-Class Captains Quarters might not be as opulent as those of capital ships, but it’s still one of the best views on the ship. Reclined in a chair, she watches the planet below her slowly tip on its axis and dance in the cosmos to the tune of violins playing over the speakers

A cliché it might be, but she’ll be damned if it isn’t one for a good reason. Soothing, in a word, as is the replicated chamomile, both things she knows she’s going to need given the contents of her PADD.

Freeman knows Mariner did some Gray-ops stuff during the Dominion war, that much she’s been able to piece together from various accounts, her peculiar friendship with Kor’in, for example, was likely forged amidst too much blood for human stomachs.

Even as Captain, heck, even as Admiral, there were just some things too inked over for them to get a look into, and that frustrates her till this day.

Sure, every year new stuff gets declassified, and occasionally ‘Zo will call her with a tidbit of horrifying news regarding their daughter, and it takes everything she has not to slam her PADD down in front of Mariner and demand an explanation, but that’s part of the job, she supposes.

Being a mother, that is, not a Captain.

Sparing Tulgana another furtive glance, she reckons Mariner must be on her third bar by now- no doubt scouring every single bar she can find for new and improved alcohol- like she’s not had everything to drink already.

Surprisingly, the thought doesn’t fill her with the dread it should- ever since the Locarno incident, Mariner has been… improving. Frankly well before that, even if it was slow- it seems she’s finally picking herself back up, which is why the current situation needs to be handled as quickly as possible.

Last time she needed them, they couldn’t help her- not whilst fighting a war, and look what it cost them… not again.

Then, as if summoned, she gets a call from Alonzo. 

The PADD lights up, and treats her to a view of her husband, off-duty and wearing a turtleneck she remembers for its unwavering service of hiding hickeys through the years. He’s reclined in the living room, tucked into the corner of the L shaped couch in front of the holo-hearth that warms his smile and face. Behind him, the Golden Gate bridge stands illuminated against the night sky.

All in all, a pretty great view- though Carol reckons she has a better one. “Hey honey, how are you?”

“Tired, but good,” he says, making a show of rolling his shoulders. “You know how it is with the admiralty.”

She makes a sound at the back of her throat. “Sometimes I wonder how we even made it off of earth.”

“So do I,” Alonzo laughs, before his expressions sobers. “I know that look in your eye Carol- it’s the same look you had before you told me you were pregnant. Is it Beckett again? You told me she was doing better?”

It’s a testament to how far they’ve come that she doesn’t immediately jump in with her husband’s assessment, no matter how accurate they might have been through the years

“She was- is doing better actually, but that’s why I called you. I’m sure you already got the report-”

She watches him sit up straighter, then. Slipping back into the Admiral, rather than the off-duty husband. w“The Batraxxi mission, right? The one she was heading, I heard- how is she taking it?”

“Better than I expected,” that much Carol has to admit. “She did go off on me and Ransom about not retrieving the body, which- fair. I wish we could, but I can’t afford to lose any more people in a mission like that, if we could even find his remains.” 

“A shame- but I’m glad to see she’s taking it better… or do you think she’s not?”

Carol sighs, and damn it if closing her eyes just reminds her of all the mistakes she’s made over the years. “I know we thought she was fine before, ‘Zo. And when it turned out she wasn’t, it was too late… which is partially why I called you. I’m sending you some of T’ana’s findings now.”

She forwards them, and a few seconds later sees the faint flicker of the message on his PADD. His brow furrows as he clicks it, and something flashes in his eyes. She reckons it’s probably surprise at the lack of black ink. “Carol, how did you get these? I haven’t even seen these- Starfleet didn’t declassify this!”

“Starfleet didn’t, but the Klingon high council did,” Freeman says, then, because she can already see the migraine between her husband’s eyes, she explains. “A commander aboard some capital ship- they didn’t declassify that for some reason - ran afoul some high ranking Klingons and nearly got himself executed. Turns out, he knew Kor’in, who just so happened to be on Qo’nos at the time- and as such wanted to vouch for him. Apparently the General gives out blood oaths like we do comm badges.”

Alonzo groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I can see where this is going- but continue.”

“Apparently they called his bluff, and as such Kor’in was forced to pull records from their missions together- stuff the council cleared, and thus declassified… twenty-seven missions in total. All bloody, bloody stuff,” even now some of the reports make her feel sick. “Anyways, Kor’in managed to prove his point, thereafter he drove said point straight through the other Klingon’s heart. From what I heard the commander is fine, though he’s now a Lieutenant again last I heard.”

“And this landed in your lap, how?” he asks.

At that, Carol can’t help but smile. Ransom really had taken Mariner under his wing- no matter how much he seemed to protest it, he’d developed a fondness for her daughter, one that had seen him pull some strings with T’ana that Freeman doubts she would have thought of. “Turns out T’ana still has some friends with the Klingons, once she started asking, this popped up quite quickly.”

“This is going to be a nightmare,” her husband laments, holding up a finger. “Give me a minute.”

She has a good idea what he’s planning, and indeed, sees him settle back in with a glass of Romulan ale moments later.

“Whatever else she got from me- the taste for liquor is all you ,” she teases, causing him to roll his eyes. “But that isn’t why I called you. I was reading through these files.. and guess whose name keeps coming up?”

“Mariner?”

Carol nods. “Zo, she’s in all of these- half of these missions I remember being classified as ‘intelligence’ runs, or other things to that extent, not sabotage missions behind enemy lines- there’s even talk in the last missions of people being captured? Starfleet personnel in a Cardassian prison?”

Thankfully Mariner was here, on the Cerritos, instead of trapped out there- her stomach turns at the very thought, the not knowing likely would have eaten her away from within long before now. “...I have no clue what to do with all this, though. If I bring all this to Starfleet’s attention, she’s going to be forced into a psych eval.”

“A psych eval you fear she’ll ditch?”

“A psych eval I’m afraid she’ll fail,” Carol presses. “You and I both know she doesn’t talk about the war- I’m worried someone pressing her on it… she’s finally doing better, ‘Zo. I was worried, for a moment, that she’d join Locarno. After what I did to her with Starbase 80, and everything before that…”

At last, it seems he’s got a view of the picture she’s painting. It’s not a pretty one. Carol will perhaps always regret that decision, but most of all she regrets the words she told Beckett, then. They were unneeded, they were- they were cruel , and she’d been too much of a coward to take them back, not that Beckett ever would ask her to.

That was another 

“You’re worried it’s going to push her too far?”

“I’m worried it’s going to send her right over the edge- and you know how it is ‘Zo. Beckett and I… we don’t do heavy topics, every time we try, it ends up being a fight and- I just don’t know what to do,” between the three of them, Alonzo is the cryer, which is why he looks so shocked when he catches the wetness in her eyes, courtesy of the glare of Tulgana’s sun in her view. It’s a special sort of helplessness she feels, and with it the ugly stink of failing her baby.

Chapter Text

For the most part, things end up going pretty well. They skip Chalnoth Town after a few drinks, ending up in a Vulcan quadrant that T’lyn expresses issues with, leaving Mariner to simply snag a few bottles of contraband on-the-go rather than piling into some fancy drinking establishment. 

They skip by little Qo’nos and find out that yes, Ma’ah and his ship will be docking in a few days, and she strangely looks forward to meeting her designated Klingon therapist again, even if their contact has been pretty sparse following the Locarno situation.

“I wonder if he’s got better alcohol tolerance than the General,” Tendi asks then, seemingly reading her mind, as Boimler next to her shudders.

“I’m pretty sure Boimler has better alcohol tolerance than the General,” Mariner assures. “Still, it’s going to be interesting- haven’t had a good Klingon drinking contest in years , hey did you know if a Klingon drinks enough blood wine-” she begins, her mind flush with the image of the cutest little pink blush a Klingon could manage, when Boimler suddenly grabs both her and Tendi by the shoulder and steers them 90 degrees westward, towards, well, away from the Klingon district.

“Look, I’m up for Blood wine as much as the next guy,  but maybe not on our first night out?” he says, and it’s a credit to him- or her, either or really- that she almost believes the blatant lie.

He’s gotten better, good enough that she doesn’t immediately call him out on it, but not good enough to sate her curiosity.

Seems she’s got a new job for tonight. Find out whatever it is Boimler’s trying to keep from her.

-

Tendi corners him in their next bar, just as he comes back from the toilet. Her eyebrows set in a tight line and the glass in her hands clutched just tight enough that he can see the swirling patterns of her fingerprints through the crystalline lashing distorting the green swill inside 

“What was that about?” she asks, the concern bare in her voice. “You freaked out back there, what’s wrong?”

Boimler really should have figured out that Tendi would see something amiss. “Look, I- I saw a few Cardassians, okay? They were just headed into the bar, I figured given what happened with Mariner and all, that it would probably be… for the best?”

Tendi’s expression is blank for a moment, then she opens her mouth. “Ah, yeah that makes sense,” her eyes go shifty, back towards the cubby in the far corner where they left Rutherford and Mariner. “Still, she’s asking questions- any ideas how to keep it from her?”

“I was just thinking have fun with her,” Boimler admits. “You know, grab a few drinks, keep her moving, take her mind off of what happened- you know, be friends for a night?”

Okay, that was not what he’d been planning in truth. Honestly he’d been asking himself that same question for the past few hours- but based on Tendi’s smile, something that’s always reassuring, maybe this impromptu idea might have some merit. “...What do you think?”

“I think that’s a great idea!” Tendi says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll come to us if she’s ready.”

Boimler isn’t so sure of that, and he admits it too; “Most of what I know of Mariner’s past comes from other people, we had Rutherford pull up her file once- yeah I know not really moral, but uh, there was a lot of black ink in that file. I know she was on DS9 for a bit, she knows Ryker, and she did some Gray ops stuff in the Dominion war, but I’m frankly scared to ask her.” 

“Some people just want to leave their past where it lies,” Tendi says, and it’s clear she’s not quite talking about just Mariner anymore. “Now let’s go back and have a good night.”

Then, because the world hates them, those very same Cardassians he’d seen earlier step into the bar. Five of them, each angrier looking than the last. They share a look, and there’s room for an ocean of uncertainty in the second of eye contact he and Tendi share

“Oh no, well, maybe Mariner hasn’t seen them-”

“She just did.”

“Maybe she won’t care?”

That particular train of thought lasts about as long as it takes Mariner to launch herself across the table and into the group of Cardassians. 

-

“-Seriously, Boimler, that was what you were hiding from me? I thought it was something cool, or scary or something,” Mariner whines, half an hour, a black eye, and a lifetime ban from that particular bar later.

Boimler, nursing a headache, a broken nose and a few cracked ribs, glares at her. “I mean yeah , and for good reason I’d say- what the hell was that Mariner? Normally you at least try to piss someone off first if you want to fight them!”

“Yeah, well… not today,” Beckett said, slumping against the stonework of the alleyway. They split off from Rutherford and Tendi half an hour earlier, the other two makingfor some Orion friends Tendi had to hang out there, whilst Mariner had them cutting through little Qo’nos, where it turned out about half the people in the street knew her, and as such it meant the Cardassians chasing them were now being chased in turn. “Besides, they were probably dicks.”

“Probably?!”

Mariner gives him a look. “Uh, yeah, probably- besides, I didn’t like the look of that one guy. Why are you so surprised? You’re acting like this is the first time we’ve gotten in a bar fight?”

“It’s not, but that’s not the problem here!”

“Then what is?!”

“Look, I know the last mission went poorly, someone died! But that doesn’t mean you get to jump the first Cardassian you see!” Boimler hisses, pulling at his hair to prevent himself from slamming his skull back against the wall- again. He can already feel the headache coming on.

Mariner tenses, and Boimler knows he’s fucked up. “Mariner, I-”

“Boims, buddy, do me a favour and shut the fuck up, okay?” 

“Yeah, uh, sure- shutting up now,” he says, suddenly wholly uncomfortable and looking for the words to say next. Preferably ones that won’t earn him a punch. “Me and Tendi, Rutherford, T’lyn- hell, I’m sure by now even Ransom’s on your side. You’ve got people to talk to now, if something’s bothering you, and I’m sure you know this, I just… all of us are there for you, okay?”

Mariner’s silence has him bracing for another punch, but it never comes. Instead she slumps somewhat lower against the brickwork, wearing an expression of equal parts anger and… something akin to terror.

The latter lasts only a moment, replaced in the span of a single breath by a tired sort of appreciation. “Thanks Boims, but I’m fine, really.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he snaps, surprising the both of them. “Sorry, I’ll uh, go back to shutting up now, alright? Wanna go hit up another club.”

Mariner stares at him for a moment, then shakes her head. “Nah, T’lyn’s shift is almost over, and I know T’ana reports to my mom, so I’d rather us get checked out by someone that won’t immediately go crying to the captain- besides, we’ve got two weeks left, gotta save some of Tulgana IV later, eh?”

Boimler just groans.

-

“I can see you’re frustrated Carol, but maybe give it some thought,” her husband suggests. “I wish I could be there to help you- but you know how the admiralty is, always pulling one way or another.”

“Same with me,” she grouses half-heartedly. “I’m just glad for any amount of shore leave, to be honest. Especially after that mess on the planetoid- speaking of, have arrangements for Davies’ belongings been taken care of?”

“As far as I know they have,” Alonzo says, his voice roughened by the distaste of death. “Furthermore-”

A knock on her door.

Freeman frowns, wondering who that might be. “Excuse me a moment honey, it seems I’’ve got a visitor.”

He just laughs. “There’s no such thing as a break in Starfleet- talk to you later?”

“Of course, honey.”

The feed cuts off, and Carol grits her teeth as she gets to her feet. She’s not getting any younger, after all.

As it turns out, her visitor is none other than Commander Ransom, who looks at her with an expression of… well, worry. He’s holding a Padd, and it’s clear from the way he holds himself that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

“Captain, we need to talk.”

- 

(A few hours earlier)

Ransom is in the Transporter room, discussing some things with Billups, when he sees Lieutenants Jr. Grade Tendi and Rutherford teleport back aboard the Cerritos, both of them bruised, battered, and with more holes in their uniforms than regulation allows.

They look at eachother with soft smiles, then notice him and freeze. “Ah, uh, Commander Ransom sir, is anything the matter?”

It’s funny, in a way. Ransom knows what the Orion is capable of, but you’d never expect it from looking at her. Instead of commenting on that fact, he just quirks an eyebrow their way. “Do I even want to know?”

“Just some… disagreements, sir. Yep!” That’s Rutherford, who is putting a suspicious amount of weight on one of his legs. “Nothing to worry about.”

He doesn’t fail to notice the lack of Mariner, nor Boimler, who follows her around like a puppy most days. Still, Rutherford’s presence might be a boon. 

He excuses himself properly from the conversation with Billups and squares off with the two ensigns, putting on his best Commander voice. “I am sure the both of you are aware that getting into fights whilst on shore leave is an offense punishable by three days in the brig, correct?”

Another look shared between them, this one worried. Good. 

“Sir, we were uh- we weren't.”

He holds up a hand to stop Tendi from continuing. “I will have the full story from the both of you, in writing , before the day is done- but I need to talk to you in particular,” he says, pointing to Rutherford.

“Me, uh, what did I do?”

“Besides get into a fight?” Ransom says, the joke falling on deaf ears. “Look, I don’t care about the fight, neither of you are in trouble, provided you work with me here. I just need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Uh, sure,” Rutherford says. “What do you want me to do- want me to calibrate your personal replicator, set up some new equipment-

“I need you to give me Mariner’s Holodeck codes.”

Both of them blanch, Rutherford looks ready to short circuit. “But, isn’t that unethical?”

“Much less unneeded?” Tendi pipes up. “Doesn’t command have all our codes?”

“We do,” Ransom assures them. “But not Mariner’s codes- I don’t know how she’s managed it, but they’re nowhere to be found. Look, I’ll be honest with the two of you, there’s something wrong with Mariner, and I have a feeling it might have something to do with her constant usage of the Holodeck. Will you help me?”

Rutherford looks to Tendi for advice, who shakes her head. “...I don’t know, wouldn’t that be breaching her trust?”

“It would be,” Ransom agrees. “If this wasn’t an order. Look, you’re her friends, and I understand, but she’s my responsibility. Off the record, I’m asking you- but consider this as you would an order, okay?”

“...Okay.”

Ransom nods. “Now off to the med bay, both of you.”

-

“-It took around an hour for me to get the codes from Rutherford, and I went in,” Ransom explains to her. “I got the answers I wanted, at least?”

“Well, what are they then, Jack?” 

“She’s re-doing the Batraxxi mission,” he says after a beat. “She’s re-ran it upwards of 50 times these past few weeks. “Each time is a little different, but it looks- it looks to me like she’s trying to figure out what she could have done differently.”

Carol blinks, surprised at that turn of events. “Is that it?”

“Not quite,” Ransom admits. “There’s a few others- a Cardassian prison simulation that she seems to frequent, incredibly detailed, too, but well… look at this.”

He hands her the Padd, and Carols’ heart breaks.

There are 62 missions in total- each of them a few hours long. Of these, nearly half are labeled as successful, a total of 23… out of which only twelve feature Mariner herself surviving. 

“Oh, Beckett…”

Chapter Text

It takes a little- okay a lot of convincing for Captain Freeman to leave the matter first to him, the mother bear peeking out from behind the captain. Ransom leaves her in her quarters and re-activates his Padd on the way to his office.

“Notify me the moment Lt. jr grade Beckett Mariner re-boards the Cerritos, and inform her that I wish to talk to her in my office.”

The Padd makes a sound that lets him know its logged the order, and leaves him to think of what exactly he wants to say. Speeches are his thing, emotionally honest conversations… also his thing. But Mariner is nothing if not stubborn, irritating, and beyond capable of shutting down any sensible conversation if she so wishes it.

He has his work cut out for him, if anything.

-

It takes a few hours, but Mariner joins him in his office at the tail end of his day, sporting an impish grin and the rapidly fading remains of multiple injuries. He gives her the same look he did Rutherford and Tendi, but only earns himself a frown in turn. “I take it things got… interesting down on Tulgana IV?”

“Eh, it was nothing, ran into some old friends- wait, is that why you called me here, because-”

“It’s not,” he says, cutting her off. “Please take a seat.”

Okay, red flags. One of three things is about to happen in Mariner’s mind. Either she’s earned herself another promotion, one of her friends has died, or somehow her blowing up at her mother after the Batraxxi mission (and/or the bar brawl she was in a few hours ago) has made it back to command and she’s being reassigned.

Instead it ends up being a secret fourth thing. And quite frankly the strangest sentence Mariner has ever heard Ransom say leaves his lips- and she still has vivid memories of the strange energies incident.

“Mariner, I’ll be frank- I think you and your mother need to have a meeting, and possibly talk about getting a psychologist involved.”

Well then, straight to the point.  “Whoa there, where’s this coming from? I thought we were cool- besides, I’ve been to therapy aboard the Cerritos, never again. ”

“Mr. Migleemoo’s methods are… an acquired taste, to be sure. But no, I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about you, and what I’m seeing now.”

“Well, what are you seeing?”

“Honestly?” Ransom says. “I’m seeing you taking a step backwards- and yes, I’m talking about the bar fight- but that’s not the problem. Messing up is one thing, but with your track record, I’d rather curb it as I see it, okay?”

“Okay… I still don’t see where this is coming from, honestly.” 

“Mariner, remember when I told you I looked at your file- I meant it,” Ransom says, placing his Padd on the table between them, he flips it to face her, then taps two buttons and presents her with an alphabetized list of every single on-the-books infraction she’s ever committed. “It’s always the same. Instigatory behaviour, extreme increase in contraband, irreverence in the presence of authority, dereliction of duty- only when pertaining to solo missions, I would hasten to add- and refusal to follow orders, This has been going on for nearly a decade, Mariner- do you have any idea what it means?”

Faced with all that, Mariner takes a moment to find which nerve makes her jaw work. The scowl comes naturally, the crossed arms feel a bit silly, but her hands need to fiddle with something. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about- maybe it’s just… idk my type of response?”

“Almost,” Ransom says, and she can tell he’s trying to keep his voice as judgment-free as possible, and somehow that only pisses her off more. “Yeah, it’s a you thing, I don’t think there’s anyone aboard the Cerritos, but it’s not your ‘type’, it’s your pattern.”

Mariner blinks. “...Have you been reading some of Migleemoo’s books?’

“No,” he says, and moments later the sound of something being kicked under the desk rings out, liar . “Here’s the thing- we might have warp drives and phasers now, but our minds are just the same. They think in certain ways, make things easier- ever notice how you put on your shoes the same way each day? That’s a pattern, meaning the mind knows what to expect.”

“Okay? I don’t see where this is going, honestly.”

He taps the Padd again. “Every single one of these ships have the same things in common. Demotions, Brig visits, demerits, and eventual reassessment- that’s the pattern, Mariner.”

This conversation suddenly reminds her of the one she had with Quimp back on Ferenginar, when he mentioned her tendency to pick fights, to ensure she got hurt. “... I see?”

“Want my opinion?” Ransom asks, asks her.

“Uh, sure?”

“You keep doing this because you know what will happen- the unknown can be a dark place after all. That’s the issue here.”

“What, me calling out bullshit when I see it?” A pin could drop in the silence that followed. “Jack, you and I both know Starfleet can be a mess at times- protocol and systems only work so often, not that anyone else gets that, with how far they have the words shoved up their own-”

“You have a point,” Ransom says, and again Mariner is stumped, which allows him home his point. “But there’s a difference between calling out the… ineffective protocols, from assaulting Cardassian traders, doesn’t it?”

“They weren’t traders, I’m telling you,” Mariner says, but lets the point lie. “What do you suggest I do? And how do you even know about that?”

“Only way to stop a pattern is to break it,” Ransom says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which, granted, he does make it sound pretty easy, but that doesn’t help her, now does it? “As for the how? I ran into Rutherford and Tendi in the transporter room, they were… forthcoming.”

“Bunch of posers,” Mariner mutters, rolling her eyes.

Ransom stands up, idly dragging a dumbbell off of the table to curl in his free hand as he stares out into the bleary vastness of space. “I was aboard this ship during the Dominion war- the Cerritos was spared most of the fighting, but even I saw some… things I’d rather not talk about. So, you know what I did?”

“What?”

“I swallowed my pride and I did ,” he says, tone clipped. “You’ve been through nearly every therapist in the fleet- and I’m not going to pretend to know or understand what you went through. I had it easy compared to you, that’s for certain, but that doesn’t matter. ”

“Doesn’t matter?!” Mariner halfway rises from her chair when Ransom’s stare pins her in place. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

“The war is over, Mariner ,” he says. “It has been for years- and you almost seem afraid of that.”

“What?” Mariner is pretty sure he’s gone insane. “Afraid? I’m glad the war is over, everyone is!”

“Then what are you fighting, Mariner?”

Mariner, surprisingly, has no response to that, save perhaps a single soft word. “...What?” 

“Pattern,” Ransom says simply, and that makes an infuriating amount of sense. “It’s like I said. Only way to change it is to break it- you went through nearly every. Single. Therapist. In Starfleet, it’s clear they didn’t get much out of you- maybe start there?”

She scoffs, picking at a hole in the upholstery and digging a finger around the frame. “And do what? Tell Migleemoo war stories? Can you imagine how that’s going to go?”

“I’m not talking about Migleemoo, Mariner,” Ransom says, and she knows that expression. The quirked brow, the genuine concern, the- oh no, oh hell no!

“Jack,” she breathes. “Are you actually suggesting, that I talk to my mom about this?”

He just shrugs. “Worth a try, isn’t it?”

Mariner slumps in her chair, eyes staring off into the middle distance, and she feels a hand on her shoulder then. The first thought that passes through her mind is to laugh at the sheer notion of talking to Carol Freeman about her experiences during the war. The second thought is how easy it would be to reverse the hand on her shoulder into a broken arm.

The third thought is the one she voices. “...How?”

“I’m going to be completely honest,” Jack says. “I have no clue- but you’ll figure that out, won’t you? You always do.”

They end up settling on a dinner- just the two of them, Mariner, her mother, and a bottle of non-synthehol liquor that she spends most of the first course eyeing like a Kingon would a fresh helping of Gagh.

“Mariner I- I would like to talk to you,” her mother finally says, after her fork makes an amusing twenty-three fruitless forays into the depths of her Caesar salad. “About what happened, if that’s alright with you?”

“Uh, sure,” Mariner says, reaching for the liquor. Because if there’s anything she’s inherited from her mother (and it sure as shit wasn’t a sense of protocol, nor an anally retentive stance towards the cognitive functions and autonomy of crew members) it’s her complete and utter lack at having emotionally open conversation. “What do you want to know?”

“...Do you remember, back in like, ‘77, those two weeks we had leave all together at the same time.”

“I remember us screaming at eachother most every night, yeah,” Mariner says, knocking back the first of likely many drinks. “I remember being so angry I stormed out and came back late- actually ran into some people from the Academy days, if you’ll believe it.

When next she looks up, Mariner quietly wishes she hadn’t, as her mother’s look is equal parts understanding and sadness. “Are you alright?”

“I remember that night,” she says, and Mariner cringes.

“If this is about what I called you, I just want you to know I’m sorry-”

“I heard you crying, that night,” she says, and it’s like a dam bursts, because her mother can’t seem to stop speaking. “I heard you come back, and I couldn’t sleep- so I went down, probably to have another argument with you, because neither of us knows when to let things lie. But I just- I didn’t know what to do, and I’m sorry, but I should have done something.”

“...Oh,” Mariner says, dumbly. “I don’t remember that.”

Her mother’s expression turns- not piteous, no matter how much her first instinct is to lash out at it, but something different. There’s grief there, etched into the laugh-lines that seem to grow deeper by the day, and her eyes are just a bit too shiny and if her mom is gonna cry, she’s gonna cry too, and nobody wants that. 

“In all fairness, you did seem pretty drunk,” her mother says, and that does lighten the mood somewhat for the both of them to work away a sizable chunk of their first course.

“Why the sudden interest?” Mariner can’t help but ask. “You should be checking up on the Lower Deckers, not me. Davies had friends aboard the Cerritos, I wasn’t one of them- they need your help, not me.”

“On that we can both agree,” her mother says, taking a bite from her salad. “They are getting help. I made sure of that, but as for the sudden interest… did you know that the Klingon high council recently declassified a bunch of old Dominion war missions- at the behest of General Kor’in, no less.”

“No…” why would Mariner even- she sets the glass down before she can take a sip, then buries her head in her hand and groans. “How many of them involved me?”

“Nearly all of them,” her mother says, and suddenly the picture becomes clear. The universe- or whatever is in charge of the universe, at least, hates Mariner and Mariner specifically. Had this all happened a few weeks apart, or even later, she wouldn’t be here with her suddenly concerned mother bearing down on her. 

She has a good guess as to the missions that have gotten declassified, thinking back on them with bitter intent. “So, I assume you saw, what I did, I mean, during the war.”

“Mariner it’s-”

The glass goes sailing across the room, shattering into a thousand pieces across the far wall. Her mother looks at her wide-eyed, as Mariner’s own shoulders heave with the effort and the anger. “It’s what? It’s ‘okay’? It's alright?! No it fucking wasn’t! I joined Starfleet to explore the stars! To find out what life was like on a hundred planets ,to go boldly! Not to Assassinate Cardassian commanders, or poison Keltrec supplies. None of us signed up for that- we just wanted to be scientists, but Starfleet needed soldiers , and that’s what they made us, isn’t it?”

Suddenly, Ransom’s words make a lot more sense. What use is a soldier, without wars to fight? Little, is the answer that her mind provides.

Little, if any.

She braces herself for what comes next. The preaching, the pandering, the half-believed lies that follow each criticism of the way of things. ‘Believe in the mission’ or whatever else her mother has said over the years. Everyone believes she hates Starfleet, and the sparse group that knows better does not include her mother. 

Mariner damn well knows her mother was as surprised as any of them when she’d rejected Locarno’s offer.

But it never comes, instead, as Mariner looks up, her mother looks at her with a look of such blatant hurt that it peels away every layer of defense she can think to put up and hits her straight between the ribs, making her heart skip a beat. 

“...You should never have had to go through all that,” Freeman finally says. “None of you should have. I wish we could have spared you from the worst of it, all of you.”

Too hurt to truly accept the words, Mariner turns, crossing her arms. “On that, we agree.”

And then, because its her mother, Captain Carol Freeman opens her mouth, and promptly shoves her foot in it. “Sweetie, I just want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t trust me?”

“Help?” it starts off quiet, like steam misting up from a kettle set to boil. “ Help?! And what does help entail, exactly? Screaming at me? A few more weeks in the brig? Or sending me off to some psychiatrist again? To be treated like I’m, like I’m made out of glass, or broken, or…

Mariner trails off, looking at her hands. There’s a shuffle, the clatter of feet, and- woah when did her mom get that close? Mariner pushes the chair away from her mother’s reaching hands, nearly toppling over with it only to cartwheel onto her feet and land back-first against the wall.

Great, rock and a hard place, only rocks (usually) didn’t wear her mother’s face, and stare at her with teary eyes. “Or maybe, Starbase 80 again, when I was the only one not shit-talking you. Did you even say anything to the rest of them?”

She hadn’t, Beckett had asked. Because damn it as much as everyone thinks she doesn’t care, she cares, she cares a lot , and it’s no secret that she’s all but incapable of showing that with any regularity, but damn it that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. “Don’t start acting like you care all of a sudden.”

“Beckett, of course I care, I’m your mother-”

“Are you?” she hisses, and her mother’s eyes widen in shock. She could leave it at that, normally she would have, knowing the knife she’s planted in her mother’s heart, but right now all she wants to do is grab it and twist . “I seem to recall you being unsure if you could call me ‘your daughter’ remember that? Oh and how about after that, making sure I couldn’t even say goodbye to my friends, huh? What about that?”

Her mother flusters, mouth open before she can find her words again. “I apologized for all of that, you told me it was alright?”

Mariner throws up her hands in frustration. “Yeah, well, maybe I was lying about that? You always second-guess me when I’m telling the truth, so why not now?”

“Because I don’t know how to talk to you!” there’s the eruption she’s been waiting for. “It used to be that I knew what to say to you, that I knew what made you upset, or sad. It used to be that you’d talk to me, that you’t tell me what was wrong, and now, now I feel like I’m talking to a stranger at times! “

“What, like it's been easy for me? Half the time you two look at me like I’m some apparition, or a ghost- both of us know I’m not the person I was before the war, but would it kill you to at least pretend like you wouldn’t rather have her here than me?”

She doesn’t know why, but most of the fight leaves her with those words, and she silently slinks down into the closest seat she can find, wringing her hands and refusing to look up at her mother, eyes wide, shoulder heaving, tongue dry with the taste of the confession, unwanted as it had been.

The scrape of a chair rings out. Her mother settling in the chair beside her, eyes red- mirroring Mariner’s own. Yet neither woman speaks, both contenting themselves with staring at the table. 

“It’s weird,” Mariner finally says, after a beat. “You not yelling back- I mean. I thought you’d be cursing me out by now…”

“I am angry,” her mother says. “I’m often angry at you, sure. Angry that you always seem to throw away every chance you’re given. Angry that you don’t care for the rules… but I’m angrier at Starfleet, for sending rookies into combat, for what they had you do. And I’m angry at myself most of all… you’re right- sometimes I look at you, and I wonder where that little girl with the stars in her eyes went. But that’s no fault of yours, is it?” 

Mariner watches her mother slump forward, voice quivering like the sound a transporter makes half a second before energizing, that brief moment of calculation and hope that predates every dis- and re-assembly that is so commonplace it’s almost forgotten how fucked up the whole process is. 

“I’m worried about you, Beckett. Not as your Captain, but as your mother. I was worried before, with Locarno- I sent you on that mission because I wanted you out of danger- and it only succeeded in putting you in more danger,” Freeman looks at her, and the glint in her eyes is pure agony. “I saw you were getting reckless, that you were trying to get yourself killed, and I shipped you off instead of asking what was wrong. And look what happened? You nearly get killed by a Klingon Bird of Prey, wind up abducted by Locarno, and… I nearly watched you blow yourself up with a Genesis device.”

Mariner, despite herself, lays a hand on her mother’s shoulder in silent comfort. She might still be angry at her- but she’s not gonna let her blame herself for the shit she had no part in, it’s everything else that’s the issue, not the way she handled that particular situation. “And you got me out, just in time- didn’t you?”

“And it took me nearly losing the Cerritos, forcing Lt. Tendi to resign- temporary as that might have been- and going directly against Starfleet orders for me to do as such, and still we were nearly too late,” her mother groans, the sound almost empty. “Could I ask you a question, Mariner? Could I ask you one question, just one, provided you’ll answer me honestly?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Are you suicidal?”

Seems for all the marvelous achievements humanity has produced through the centuries, that it’s a simple fact of biology that one can choke on air. “What? Why would you think that- are you alright? 

It’s then that her mother drops a bombshell. “Ransom dropped by yesterday, he had some… interesting information on his Padd, information regarding your impressive number of logged hours during these past few weeks, anything you want to say about that?”

Something sour grows in her gut, the feeling of… shame? “Gotta keep sharp, the Holodeck is good for that. Don’t worry I’m not having a tryst with young Spock’s hologram or some shit like that.”

Her mother doesn’t laugh, but she also doesn’t frown. The former was expected, the latter is worrying. “I know you’re not… because I know what you have been doing- you’ve been re-running that mission on Batraxxi VI, haven’t you?”

What?! Mariner just stares ahead, unsure of how- oh, of course. Rutherford would be the only one capable of cracking the encryption codes she’d bargained out of some Section 31 acquaintances a while back, which probably meant it was given up after Ransom went prying.

Gross breach of trust and conduct aside, the unholy shitstorm she’s going to rain down on Rutherford - and Tendi, providing she knew and didn’t say anything- is absolutely nothing to the one she finds herself in all of a sudden. 

Reaching for a lie and finding nothing but half-truths instead, she nonetheless soldiers on, hoping somewhere along the line to find a way to explain the whole situation to her mother that doesn’t end with her being declared ‘unfit for duty’ or anything like that. “Look, I uploaded the shuttle’s mission data, tweaked it a little, and made myself a mission- a good ‘ol Kobayashi Maru situation, you know?”

“A Kobayashi Maru is a no-win scenario,” her mother says simply, voice dry. She reaches over to grab a Padd Mariner hadn’t noticed from between the entrees and a halfway empty pitcher of water. It blinks open to reveal every mission she’s ran since the one that went wrong- frankly she’s just happy it was Ransom and not her mother, who would doubtlessly have delved deeper. “No-win being the operative word-er words, and yet I see a lot of wins here, hm?”

Mariner scoffs, wiping away a stray lock of hair. “So? I’ve always been more of a Kirk type, y’know? There’s no such thing as a no-win scenario.” 

“There is such a thing,” her mother says, sighing in that way that lets Mariner know there’s a story behind the sound. “Especially given a frightful amount of these include your own death. Care to explain that?”

“So?” says Mariner, like an idiot. She can practically hear the lecture that slip of the tongue is going to earn her already. “I mean- those were the mission parameters. Encounter hostiles, retreat, and escape the planetoid without casualties to the crew.”

“Were you not part of the crew?” 

“I was their commanding officer,” Mariner says, “It’s my duty to ensure the safety of my crew- even if it puts my own safety at risk.” 

“There’s a difference between putting your safety at risk for the sake of your crew- and wilfully sacrificing yourself!”

“Ensign Davies was my responsibility, it was my job to get him home, and I failed in that,” Mariner doesn’t quite understand why her mom’s expression softens at that, it’s the truth, one of those ugly ones she’s always telling her to face, no less. 

Instead of pleased, her mother instead looks… mournful? “Oh Mariner, I know what you’re going through, the first time I  lost someone on a mission I was leading hit me hard too, in fact-”

“This isn’t my first time, mom,” Mariner tells her, and wow that’s more than she ever wanted to tell to begin with. “And that shouldn’t matter- what matters is that he was an Ensign I was in command of, that he was someone I was responsible for and failed …”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Failure never quite stung as hard as when it affected others. She’d ran multiple simulations, each playing out the exact same way up until certain points where hindsight allowed her better. “Is this what you’re getting at? Getting me kicked out of Starfleet? Trying to get me booted on mental health charges? Whatever’s in those files should be enough. Never mind my history of demeritment, that’s more than enough to get me discharged, isn’t it?”

Her mother sighs. “Yes”

“I knew it-”

“Or it would have been,” she continues. “If your father wasn’t making this whole situation disappear right now, you’re welcome, by the way.”

Okay, now Mariner was beyond confused. “Mom?”

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I wasn’t going to do you any favours for being my daughter,” her mother says, harkening back to the first conversation they had when Mariner had boarded the Cerritos as part of its crew, a few years back. “I want you to keep that in mind, before you go considering this an act of nepotism- what did Boimler call you, ‘Starfleet royalty?’” 

The wash of sudden levity is just enough to elicit a surprised bark of laughter from her. “Oh please don’t remind me of that- he keeps trying to get into my frequencies to get Riker to sign his latest plate collection. He’s obsessed I tell you.”

“Oh I believe you there, still- you’re not. Whatever else me and your father might have helped you with. All of this, the good and the bad- especially the bad, mind you. Are all your own doing. And I’ll be damned if I see that all thrown away because of some dusty files that get opened just as you’re doing better.” 

Anyone else might have been jumping for joy at that fact, but Mariner knows her parents, and she’s also known enough Ferengi to know some of their laws of acquisition. One of them springs to the forefront of her mind immediately.

If something is too good to be true, it probably is- or they’re suckers, in which case go for it.

Now her mother is many things, a neurotic hardass micromanager with a temper Mariner inherited, but she’s not a sucker. So Mariner will be forgiven for looking this particular gift horse in the mouth…

Who even gifts horses nowadays?

Her fingers tap a rhythm against the cool steel of the dinner table, eyes flitting somewhere between the drinks and the cutlery strewn askew between the dishes, weighing both options in her head.

Unfortunately for her, she also knows a few more Ferengi rules of acquisition, namely the ones pertaining to seizing chances when they present themselves, and choosing the lesser of two losses.

“I assume you want something in return, right?”

“You make it sound like we’re blackmailing you.”

“Yeah, well, you kinda are, aren’t you?” she points out, and her mother rolls her eyes. “Congrats, mom. You finally have something to hold over my head so I comply- woohoo, you win. ”

“Beckett-”

“I mean sure, I can say no, but then you’ll tell dad to accidentally leak it all.”

“ Beckett-”

“And let’s be honest you guys are right, there is nothing else for me in Starfleet, nobody will take me onboard after the Cerritos-.”

“BECKETT MARINER FREEMAN,” her mother roars then, the anger she’d been looking for suddenly on full display. “ Nobody is forcing you to do anything. Not me, not your father, nobody - do you hear me? Nobody is out to get you, or sabotage, or blackmail you. We want to help you, damn it!”

Well, she’s got the anger she was looking for, and finds it rather she hadn’t. “So, if I don’t want to talk about it?”

“Then… that would be your choice,” her mother says, clearly unhappy.”And we would respect it. But please, consider it, alright?”

For some strange reason, she does. “And you want me talking to a counselor, because I’m not talking to Migleemoo, if I hear one more food pun in therapy I will commit a murder.”

“No, not Migleemoo,” her mother says, and wow she’s serious. Mariner just threatened one of her crew and she didn’t take the time to comment on it- somehow that makes her smile, if only a little bit. “I’m talking someone not Starfleet related, someone who’ll answer to me, and your father, and nobody else.”

“You mean a civilian?”

“Yes, it was your father’s suggestion- apparently the very same one he used to frequent.”

Mariner vaguely recalls the woman her mother speaks of. Between the three of them, her father was the paragon of healthy mental exercise, as such he’d been the only one to stick through until his counselor had called it. 

“So I’m just… supposed to talk to a complete stranger, about all that?”

Her mother leans over, gently taking hold of her hand. A calloused thumb tracing lazy circles across her knuckles. “If you want to- or you could try me, first?”

-

“... I don’t know how much I can tell you, I don’t know how much I want to tell you,” Mariner finally says, when the second course arrives, opting to let it cool down. Replicators are capable of making food at the exact .0001 degree you want it, but waiting for steak to cool down lends itself to easier conversation, or so her mother seems to think. 

Still, Ransom’s words ring in her head, and so she tries. She talks of little things long forgotten, and anecdotes that the conversation brings back like the ocean does seashells to a beach. Things she’s forgotten and things she wishes she could forget. 

Ambushes, sabotage, friends she’d made. She speaks little of her time in gray-ops, and shares some stories about her stations aboard various Starfleet ships. The funniest of her anecdotes come from her time aboard DS9.

“-Did I ever tell you about the time I got myself a year-long tab at DS9?”

Her mother, seemingly content to listen, only frowns before bidding she continue. Mariner takes another drink of her ale, happy enough to let the drink numb her mind and loosen her tongue- it’s gotten her through a few stories she’s never told before already.

“So Quark used to have this betting pool- regarding Odo, head of security aboard the station. He was a great guy, if a bit too lovey-dovey with Kira. Regardless, he always got his guy, and so Quark would do the books on a pool to see how long it would take Odo to close the case.”

“I can see where this is going,” her mother mutters. “How’d you do it?”

“Simple,” mariner explains, dragging a finger through the sauce on her plate in a rough blueprint of the old hab blocks. There were some minor things missing- pretty sure it was random knick knacks from all over, but Quark started the pool, and so I made a bet- Odo was beside himself trying to figure out who it was, so I bet that he’d find the culprit today,” oh the look on Quark’s face was one she’d take to her grave. “Quark told me I was an idiot, and I got him to give me a year’s tab if it happened.”

“And then what?”

“Then I turned myself in, not an hour later,” Mariner said, an impish grin on her face. “Quark was proud, if anything. Odo less so, but he never really knew how to have any fun…”

Freeman just sighs. "Unbelievable. Is this what led to your first demerit? Please don’t tell me you earned yourself a demotion to win a bet?”

Mariner scoffs. “As if, Odo sent me to the brig for 3 days- then let me out after one because he realized just what I’d done to mess with Quark, only time I ever saw him bend a rule. I got demoted later for some… actions in Dominion space, back in I think 2376?”

“Mariner.. what were you doing in dominion space after the war was over?”

“Uh, I was in prison?”

“ What?!”

“I mean you have access to my Holodeck logs, dont you? My most used workout routine is breaking out of a Cardassion prison. How else did you think I knew its layout so well?”

“Not by being imprisoned there?!” Carol hisses, and Mariner can about feel the heart attack coming on. “What, when, where?”

Mariner shrugs. “Last few months of the war, actually- mission went wrong, we got captured and sent off, thankfully by that time the Dominion was on the back foot, and we got released soon thereafter…  well, we were supposed to be released, I broke out a few days after the war ended, that actually got me in some trouble, Starfleet command said I was ‘endangering tense political stability’ with my actions, or whatever that means,” she says, trailing off at the expression of growing horror on her mother’s face. “Wait, you didn’t know?” 

“NO!” her mother about rips the Padd that suddenly appears in her hand in half with how hard she’s pressing through buttons, the inverted image of her father’s face appearing moments later.

Mariner can do nothing but cringe, not looking forward to being her father in, say, 10 seconds.

It ends up being 8

“Hello honey, how was-”

“DID YOU KNOW OUR DAUGHTER WAS HELD PRISONER BY CARDASSIANS?!”

“WHAT?!”

Mariner can already tell she’s going to leave this dinner with a full stomach, a buzz, and the worst headache she’s ever had.

Chapter Text

It isn’t often that Boimler finds himself not the voice of reason, but right now he’s pissed.

To think back on the reason for his current anger would be to think back to the prior day, where, fresh out of the med bay, he was successfully cornered by both Tendi and Rutherford at once, wearing twinned apologetic expressions and offering a story that both angered and saddened him.

The whole Mariner situation wasn’t why he currently sat twiddling with his phaser though, flicking it between stun and- well, higher settings of stun, he didn’t want to kill any of them, despite everything.

They watched the safehouse with interest. Shaxs’ team having been enlisted with the shore leave and everything, all supervised by Commander Ransom himself.

Rutherford was in the Transporter room, Tendi had been hand-picked to be first through with Shaxs himself, and his duty was overwatch. Despite his neurotic tendencies, it turned out he had steady hands when it mattered.

It also wasn’t the fact he was currently in a potentially life-threatening situation on what was meant to be a relaxing shore leave that had him so angry.

No, it was the reason they were here to begin with.

Turns out, after Rutherford had taken Mariner’s codes to Random- a fact Boimler was still slightly pissed about, but one that could be dealt with later- he’d taken a look for himself. Apparently the entire scenario had been built directly from the shuttle’s database, using its scanners to perfectly recreate the environment of Batraxxi VI for Mariner’s missions.

It gave him a new appreciation for those shuttles- because as it turned out, if you have scanners powerful enough to map a hundred square miles of an asteroid to the millimeter through a storm , that faces are easy enough to map as well.

Mariner might not have known it, but her suspicions were right with regards to the Cardassians she’d attacked.

They weren’t traders- they were pirates , the same pirates that had killed Davies under her command.

Ransom had heard of their findings and wasted no time.

“Uh guys, get ready. Shaxs and Tendi are about to breach- stay low to avoid phaser fire, and watch any potential exits,” came Rutherford’s voice through the Comms.

“Remember guys, stun only, avoid aiming at the head if you can at all help it, we want them alive,” he reiterated to the people beside him. It was a testament to just how angry he was that his voice didn’t quake with the nervousness he so surely felt.

The entire mission had been volunteers only, but as it turned out, the knowledge of just what had happened spread like wildfire, and Mariner was more popular aboard the Cerritos than even he knew.

“Ensigns Barnes, Tara, Malarkey, understood?” 

He got an affirmative from all three, and just in time too, for when he turned around there was the sound of phasers shrill in the air.

“Eyes up everyone, it’s showtime.”

Oh he’s always wanted to say that. 

-

It’s official.

Carol Freeman, captain of the Cerritos and a decorated Starfleet officer, is terrified out of her mind. It’s one thing to know your daughter is out there fighting a war whilst you’re aboard a starship. It’s another thing entirely to hear some of the stories second-hand.

And then there’s the knowledge that your daughter’s first demotion came after she broke herself out of a Cardassian prison that neither her nor her husband, a Starfleet Admiral were aware of. Carol had always believed in the mission, and she’d never stopped. Not when Wolf 359, or the Dominion war, or any number of atrocities had occurred. Not when she’d been set up by a family friend to fail and be decommissioned, or even when she’d been framed.

But this? This was enough to rattle her faith in Starfleet to its core. Worse than that, was the fact that their daughter had apparently assumed they knew about all this.

It was lucky they lived in a moneyless society, because Alonzo’s old counselor was heading for a double booking.

“So, let me get this straight- you get captured on a mission, just before the Dominion surrendered, off of bad intel with no hope of retrieval. Get captured, break out, and then get demoted by the same admiral that ordered the mission to begin with?”

“Yeah, that about summs it up.”

“Who,” she asks, after a moment, gripping the table hard enough that she’s worried it might break in half. She doesn’t miss the look her husband and daughter share across the PADD, nor the hand that Mariner lies, almost soothingly, on her shoulder.

“What does it matter, it happened- besides, even if that one was undeserved, it’s not like there’s not been a dozen since that I haven’t more than earned, right?” Mariner says, a little too quickly for it to be anything but dismissal. 

Freeman lets it be, at least for the moment, knowing this isn’t the place for her anger. That might come later- besides, Mariner is less likely to clam shut if she asks when her mind has… settled, no matter how much she wants to find out just who it was-

“What’s this then, a mother-daughter dinner?” cuts in Alonzo through the Padd, looking equal parts saddened and gladdened, the latter because of them together, the former likely because he cannot be there as much as the circumstances behind everything. “I won’t keep you both any longer, see you soon!”

Her daughter’s frown is hard to miss. “See you soon, what was that about?”

“You think we wouldn’t come prepared? Your father was just waiting for the call- though I don’t think he expected it like that.”

“Knowing us, he expected screaming one way or the other,” Mariner points out, and damn it if Carol doesn’t snort at that.

They finish their second course in a better mood than the first, and the third that follows is a treat neither of them have been able to indulge in for far too long.

“Toffee pudding?” Mariner says, eyes going wide- a twinge of nostalgia hitting Freeman as he daughter digs into the steaming bowl of pudding offset by creamy vanilla ice cream. “Y’now I didn fink abo this for shooo long!” she says, through a mouthful of sweet sticky goodness, and Carol catches herself whatting the tip of het thumb to dab away a fleck of vanilla from her daughter’s cheek.

“I haven’t had this in a while, either,” she says instead, tucking in. It had been a ritual, back when Mariner had been too small to be left unsupervised. Whenever a kitchen and ingredients had presented themselves, the two would make it. There had been… interesting takes on the recipe, over the years, given there sometimes simply weren’t ingredients present. One particular one ended up incorporating a variety of Gagh with mixed results. 

“You were doing better, for a while- actually until that last mission,” Freeman says. “I’ll admit, after that whole ordeal with Locarno I expected you to backslide, but you didn’t- what did it?”

Mariner snorts, sending toffee and spittle across the table, and she already regrets asking. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” she says in turn. Having been a Starfleet Officer for over 30 years, Freeman has a decidedly non-average impression of what is believable or not. Seeing Crystalline entities dancing between the stars and watching your Commander literally ascend into a divine entity will do that to you, though fairness dictates she does concede the point that her daughter usually has some of the stranger experiences. 

With a huff, Mariner takes the challenge and shoves her half-empty plate aside. “So, there was this Klingon captain-”

That’s not how Freeman thought this was going to start, but she hears it out, and is treated to a strange tale indeed. One that sounds straight up dredged from the TOS era, of knife-rain and a weird friendship forged in a cave. 

By the end of it, Freeman feels old , and confused, and her bones shiver with a strange anticipation between anger and pride. 

“How does a Klingon that tried to Kill you-”

“To be fair, attacked him first,” her daughter interjects

“ Of course you did, Still, how does a Klingon manage what none of the best counselors in Starfleet did?” 

“I don’t know, just- he cut the shit, didn’t try to make me feel like I’m made of glass or something, okay?” the joke lands poorly, her daughter bristles, and Freeman is suddenly left scrambling for a good word.

“You handled that admirably,” is what she ends up settling on. “That was some quick thinking- what did the both of you talk about?”

Another scoff, this one more forced. “Will you believe I gave Ma’ah the same answer? My mind clears up when someone’s trying to kill me, as for what we talked about… stuff, mostly silence though. The dominion did get brought up, too.” 

The Dominion … now that’s a wound that scarred ugly. “Well, I’m glad he seemed to get through to you- even if I have to frown on such flagrant disregard for professional conduct regarding a captain not part of the Federation.”

“Oh please mom, you’d love him- he’s actually fun to talk to, tell you what, I’ll sneak him aboard-”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why not?” Mariner asks. “It isn’t like I sneak stuff aboard all the time.”

“A Klingon captain doesn’t count as contraband, mariner!” 

Her daughter laughs hard enough to startle, and Freeman vaguely realizes she’s being led on, and the annoyance fades into tired acceptance and a smile she tries her damndest to hide. “Oh shut up you and eat your pudding.”

“Aye Captain!”

Freeman can count on her hand the amount of times her daughter has unquestionably obeyed her orders over the years- it’s truly a woeful amount, but put dessert in front of her and she’s a star recruit again, honours and all.

Freeman bids herself swallow her pride and take the compliment, and quietly tucks into her own pudding, even as her stomach twists itself in knots. “Can I ask you a question?”

“All you’ve been doing is ask me questions,” Mariner snarks back, then reads the room and, surprisingly, sits up a little straighter. “Though I have a feeling I’m gonna like this one less than most, aren’t I?”

Probably a fair assessment, given everything. “I understand being upset about the loss of a subordinate- I’ve lived through that too many times not to, but I have to ask, it’s not just about Davies, is it?”

Mariner tenses, but doesn’t deny it. Freeman wouldn’t have bought a dismissal to begin with, but it’s another thing entirely to watch her daughter just… freeze.
 

Silence hangs heavy in the air, at that, and the discomfort- thick enough to cut with a plasma cutter- in the air takes the form of a name that both of them know, yet neither of them want to speak into the world. Until Mariner sighs, takes a drink, and breaks the silence with the tapping of one of her feet. 

“...Did you know this ship is the first one I’ve had friends on since the war,” comes in like a punch to the gut, even halfway whispered. “I know what you’re getting at, and I guess you’re right, Sito is involved, but- she was the first, far from the last. Two years of being on the front lines of war, of DS9 and half a hundred missions I can stomach to remember, and losing people all throughout… after a while I just, stopped . Stopped trying to make friends, stopped caring about most things. It’s gotten better, most days, but…”

“But sometimes it blindsides you, doesn’t it?” Freeman fills in, shocking her daughter silent. “That’s the thing- for all everyone always talks about carrying someone’s memories, they always like to skip over the pain that entails, too. It’s something you have to live with- but it’s never a burden you should have to carry alone.”

“So… what do I do now?”

They both spin in their seats, turning to face eachother as Freeman lays a hand on her daughter’s knee. “What you think is right, and tell me, if you want to.”

Mariner pauses, then freezes, fingers pulling at the crinkles in her pants, there where her knee bends and rapidly thumps in place, tears welling in her eyes. 

“Mom, I… I think I’m not okay.”

At that, what can she do but cross the distance and wrap her daughter into a hug. “You will be sweetie, no matter how long it takes.”

And it might have been a truly sweet moment, had the alarms not gone off right at that moment. 

Phaser in hand, Mariner was first on the Transporter deck, the door sliding open in front of her to reveal half a dozen wounded crew members and the clear operational infrastructure necessary for an operation.

A dozen heads whirled around in tone to the sound of the door sliding open, and Commander Ransom was halfway to an order when she spotted Boimler limping out of the Transporter.

“Boimler!” Rushing over she ducks Shaxs’ grip and slips herself under one of Boimler’s arms, muttering an apology at the hiss of pain it earns her. “What happened, what did you guys do?”

“It’s a long story,” he tells. “Rutherford wanted to make up for giving your codes to Ransom, so he checked through the data-”

“-Turns out that little ‘incident’ you had down on Tulgana wasn’t as random as you’d liked to have believed,” Ransom cut in. “Scanners were detailed enough to scan the Cardassians that chased your team on Batraxxi, and in re-running the mission so often, you actually started to recognise their features.”

Mariner frankly hadn’t known that was possible. “So, what was this about?”

Just in time to answer her question, the Transporter beams up two Cardassians that materialize to the greeting of a half dozen phaser rifles.

“Piracy is illegal, never mind their direct involvement in the death of Starfleet personell- Rutherford ran every diagnostic a dozen times-”

“Two dozen!” 

“-right, two dozen times, integrity at 100%, and, well…” he trails off, reaching into his pocket to slip out- oh.

He deposits the Comm gently in her palm. “One of them had this on him.”

It’s a new thing, Mariner realizes as she slowly turns it in her hand. No damage save some from water- likely molten snow that had gotten into the wiring. She has no doubts its code will match Davies’ “Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I figured there were more important things you needed to focus on right now,” Ransom tells her, then snaps his eyes elsewhere. “Captain!”

 As he made off to debrief her mother, Mariner eased Boimler to a chair to wait for T’ana’s attentions, setting him down with a frown and crossed arms.

“What?” he says, after a moment. “Ransom made sure it was volunteer only! Rutherford and Tendi volunteered because they felt guilty, and I couldn’t just let them do it by themselves, now could I?”

Mariner holds up a finger. “Tendi’s a badass Orion space-pirate”

A second. “Rutherford was aboard the ship .”

A third. “ Thank you. ”

The hug she really wants to give him has to wait for later- what with the way his breathing sounds alluding to damaged ribs, but a slight punch to the arm had never hurt anyone, had it?

“Ow!”

Oops.

With Boimler delivered, Mariner turns to watch the Cardassians be led through the Transporter, foregoing saying anything to Tendi nor Rutherford- she’s still angry at them, after all.

She’ll probably forgive them tonight over a bottle of Romulan Ale, anyways.

“How many did you catch?” she asks Shaxs, earning herself a laugh from the massive Bajoran. 

“Around a dozen- it was a good fight!” 

One particular Cardassian catches her eyes. Their leader, if she has to guess. He’s a bit bigger than the others, his uniform more ostentatious, but it’s the look in his eyes that convinces her- it’s one she remembers. 

“Lovorr Kin,” comes a voice from beside her suddenly- Tara’s voice. “That’s how he introduced himself- he’s the one they found Davies’ badge on. Her voice is as shaky as the grip on her phaser.

Now Mariner is by no means a model officer when it comes to following rules and regulations, but she really has to question the wisdom of whoever allowed her to come.

That’s nothing Tara needs to know, of course, and instead her lips part for a joke- only to let out a surprised yelp when something bashes into her.

Lovorr- somehow slipped free of his bindings, rips the Phaser from her hands and switches it from stun to kill, letting off three shots in quick succession before someone shoots him in the arm.

The first fizzles out agains the floorboards, the second goes flying off into a corner to bisect some pipe with a low hiss.

The third catches Mariner in the upper leg and sends her screaming to the floor.

Chaos erupts around her, screaming and shouting she misses in a haze. There’s a voice, her mother’s? Maybe? Alongside those of her friends. Everything bows in front of the pain, searing and stabbing, like acid running through her veins, cold shocks and the smell of burnt fabric clogging the air.

She doesn’t scream- or maybe she does- beyond the initial pain, setting her teeth grinding against eachother, hard enough to chip, it feels.

There are hands, then. Hands that drag her halfway upright, and the chemical smell of a Hypospray, and when her vision returns from that white sear she’s got her head in Boimler’s lap and her leg in Tendi’s hands.

“Mariner, are you alright?” that question comes from half a dozen mouths at once, and all she can manage in those first moments is a shaky nod. “I’m fine… bastard took my Phaser-”

“ENSIGN TARA STAND DOWN, I WILL NOT TELL YOU AGAIN!” 

Ransom’s voice rattles through the air like a space-storm, and despite herself Mariner bolts upright at the mention, a little too quick for comfort, as her leg harshly reminds her.

“Mariner please stay still, we don’t know what damage your leg has sustained,” Tendi tries to plea, but she ignores it, and with some help from Boimler manages to get herself upright enough to see what’s happening.

The sight horrifies

All but one of the Bajorans are detained- their leader, Lovorr, has his hands in the air, phaser still lazily clutched within 2 fingers, eyes twinkling with some manner of perverse joy.

Ah. Mariner realizes, finally putting a finger to the look in his eyes. He’s old school Cardassian. The sort that would look down on surrender, and would welcome death with the eagerness of a Klingon and the dark amusement that was wholly Cardassian. 

He dwarfs Tara, who stands in front of him, phaser aimed chest-high. Even from behind her, Mariner can see she’s shaking.

“ENSIGN-” this time it’s her mother from beside Ransom, hiown Phaser brought to bear, a dozen more with it. “HE SURRENDERED, STAND DOWN!”

The Cardassian grins, grins and Mariner halfway wishes she could blast him herself. “Did I now? I don’t believe I have uttered the words ‘I surrender’ before just now, hm?” he makes a show of clenching two of his fingers, the slight movement in the phaser between them enough to shift the focus of fire of all but a few present. 

“Did you kill him?” is all Tara says, from the tension that rises, it’s likely all she’s been saying. “Did you kill Davies?”

“Tara,” Mariner calls out, the plea falling on deaf ears. Her eyes calculate the number of phasers- even set to the bare minimum stun, she’s a small woman, if too many hit her… 

“DID YOU KILL HIM!” she roars now, and Mariner has had enough. Eventually pestering both Boimler and Tendi into getting her on her feet.

Moving is slow, clumsy agony, but she bites through the pain, briefly sharing a look with her mother, whose eyes flick over. Momentarily she breaks character, the concerned mother instead of the Captain, but the latter is needed right now, and rears her head anew after a nod from her daughter. 

Slowly making her way over- not like she can manage anything else, Mariner tries anew. “Tara, c’mon- put the Phaser down, he’s got nowhere to do- this is what he wants.”

“He shot you!” Tara calls back, sneaking a glance over her shoulder, eyes red-rimmed. “He killed Davies!”

“I must insist I have no clue who this ‘Davies’ is you speak of,” comes that slimy self-satisfied voice again. “Unless- ah, you mean the corpse you so kindly deposited at our doorstep? Why didn’t you say so!”

“You had his badge on you, did you kill him?!”

A shrug is all it earns her. “Maybe? I’ll admit I was aiming for shapes in the snow- it was all rather windy that day, you see? I did find him, however- figured the badge might make a nice trophy.”

Mariner stumbles the last two feet to slam her hand down on Tara’s shoulder the moment she sees the other woman’s finger tremble against the trigger, discipline and bloodlust at war with eachother, and which ever one wins, Tara loses.

It’s a cruel joke, one that she knows too well to allow the punchline for. 

“He’s trying to get you to kill him,” Mariner tells Tara, glancing to see the Phaser maxed out (Yeesh). “That’s all he wants.”

“Yeah?” scoffs the other woman, a brittle, tear-soaked thing. “I’m inclined to oblige him.”

Lovorr smiles at her, the saccharine sort, all teeth and stabbing knives. “Seems Starfleet hasn’t lost its spine yet, how excellent- was he precious to you?”

“Tara-”

The shorter woman makes an effort to shake her. “Butt out Mariner, this shit is my business.” 

“Hey, watch it, I can still kick your ass!”

Tara gives her a look. “Even with that hole in your leg?”

Mariner looks at the wound again. She knows she’s lucky, but in the strangest of ways. Had it been set lower, had it taken longer to bore throughout the other side of her leg, it might have imparted enough energy to flash-boil the blood in her leg, which, given the wound’s proximity to her femoral artery, would most certainly have been fatal.

Good job, me… I guess.

“Okay, you know what? Point taken- still, don’t do this. It’s not worth it-”

“We threw him off the cliff, you know, it was an awful way down, couldn’t even hear the sound he made when he went splat-”  

Okay, Mariner has had enough. Using momentum, leverage, and no small amount of spite, she manages to plant herself between the Cardassian and Tara, who looks moments from pulling the trigger.

“What are you doing?!” both of them ask her in tandem, as all around her worried glances cast their way.

“Making sure you don’t throw away your life,” Mariner says. “This asshole-” she says, glaring at Lovorr over her shoulder, who looks furious with her for saving his life. “Is gong away for a long time- but so will you, if you kill him.”

“I really don’t care, Mariner,” Tara tells her.

“I can see that- trust me. You don’t care now, but what about tomorrow, or the years after? Would Davies want you to?”

Evidently that only pisses her off. “Don’t- don’t talk about him! He killed him, and you got him killed! And, and-”

Oh, the heartbreak in those tears shines bright as the stars outside. The Phaser waves, if only for a few moments, but it’s enough time.

Mariner lashes a kick backwards, putting weight on her bad leg as she digs her heel into Lovorr’s groin, allowing the momentum to push her off into Tara, taking the both of them to the ground.

Stars dance in front of her eyes, her free hand goes over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sob, but only succeeds in cutting its volume in half, as her other wrenches the Phaser from Tara’s hands to send it skittering off into the darkness.

“Why would you do that,” Tara hisses, tears falling now. “Why…”

With her footing gone, Tara’s composure sweeps away, and she weeps into Mariner’s arms as they drag Lovorr off the floor and off to the hold. “Because I could.”

Time seems to slow as personnel and prisoners slowly filter out, leaving a small band gathered around the weeping woman and Mariner both. 

“...You know,” Mariner says, picking at the dark spots in her uniform as Tara’s tears finally run out. “You owe me a shirt- and a pair of pants, really.”

“Bite me,” Tara says, but there’s no anger in the sentence anymore.

Mariner chuckles. “You’re a little young for my tastes- though I did swoop you off of your feet, heh.”

“You’re terrible.”

On that account Mariner won’t disagree, but she keeps silent as Tara slowly composes herself. “I would have done it- I would.”

“I know,” Mariner says. “And it would have meant jail time and a dishonorable discharge from Starfleet- you told me you and Davies went into the academy together, right?” she tries, remembering the conversation in the berths.

“We did,” Tara says. “I miss him.”

“I know how you feel,” Mariner says. “But that’s no reason to throw your life away- do what he would have wanted you to do, honour him that way, alright?”

Tara dabbed at her eyes with a sleeve, casting a strange look Mariner’s way, “You know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” Mariner admits, and she means it too. “I’m just saying what I wish they would have said to me, in hindsight.” 

She doesn’t miss the way her mother’s breath hitches behind them, and a pang of guilt settles in her gut. She gives Tara a final affectionate squeeze, then peels herself away to look the other woman in the eye.”

“So, what happens now?” Tara asks her. 

“Oh, you’re going to the brig for this,” Mariner assures her, the words sound wrong, but it’s the truth. “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it looks.” She holds up a fist for the other woman to bump. “Brig buddies?”

Tara frowns. “What did you do to get sent to the Brig?”

“Right now? Nothing- but I’m somewhat of a record holder, and you’re damn sure I’m gonna visit you!”

“But first you’re going to the infirmary,” there comes her mother then, helping Mariner off of her feet. “Shaxs, would you please escort Ensign Tara to the brig?”

“Captain,” Shaxs nods, firmly but gently scooping Tara off of the floor to drag her off to the Brig.” 

“Oh, and Tara!” Mariner calls after her. “If you ever need to talk to someone, you know where to find me!”

There’s a curse that earns her, but it’s cut off by the pneumatic hiss of doorways closing

“That was stupid and reckless,” her mother says, the moment those doors slam shut against eachother. “Well done.”

“Thanks,” Mariner says with a laugh that tapers off into a groan as she accidentally shifts onto her bad leg again. “I am visiting her as soon as T’ana clears me.”

“Of course you are…” 

Mariner laughs, but the pride in her mother’s eyes… well it does something for her. But nothing compares to the relief she feels at the situation’s resolution.

The last thing she wants is for one stupid mistake to cost Tara her career- especially not given circumstances.

“I like that kid, she’s going to go far.”

“She reminds me of you,” her mother says, and its true.

“Yeah, I just gotta make sure she doesn’t turn into me,” Mariner responds.

They don’t say anything else, they don’t need to. Because Mariner is stubborn like that, and she’ll make sure of it.

For Davies, for Tara herself.

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit for Mariner herself.