12-03-2025, 05:49 PM
Personal Log – Midshipman Riley Wright
Encrypted Transmission – Recipient: Midshipman T’Varen
Hey, T’Varen.
I know, I know — you’re going to say that “missing someone” is an inefficient use of emotional energy. Consider this my wildly illogical status report anyway.
So. Yeager.
She still smells like a fabrication bay — new alloys, new plastics, that faint ozone from systems that haven’t quite settled in. Junior officers’ quarters are exactly as glamorous as advertised: two bunks, one couch, one tiny replicator, and a shower that sounds like it’s going to shake loose from the wall. I can reach every corner of the room in three steps, which I’m pretty sure violates some Vulcan standard for personal space.
Captain Braggins is… different than I expected. Sharper than any tactical sim instructor we had, but with this quiet, almost mischievous edge. The new bridge module is all sleek consoles and holo-interfaces. I wasn’t there for the dedication, but from the way people talk, she actually felt something about the quote on the plaque — and you know how fast that kind of thing travels through a crew.
My department head is Lieutenant Artemis d’Tor’an. She’s got this hard-edged calm, like she’s always half a heartbeat from either laughing at you or throwing you at a punching bag. Most of what I know is Yeager gossip and my own first impressions. First time I reported in, she was ordering something that probably violated three medical advisories — double peppermint mocha raktajino, extra everything. The thermos she drinks it from looks like it could double as an impact weapon.
Security culture here is… loud. If they’re teasing you, you’re in. If they’re not, worry. There’s a senior NCO, Gary, who greeted the Chief by accusing her of drinking mint like it was a crime against Klingon heritage. She threatened to cut out his guts and eat them and somehow that was “good morning.” I’m still calibrating.
We’ve also got a VIP on board — a diplomatic type named Mister Tomer. I didn’t meet him right away; all I heard was that he’d holed up in his VIP quarters and wasn’t answering chimes on the morning of the race. Rumor mill labeled him difficult, touchy, not thrilled to be here. Whether he was nervous about the mission, the ship, or just people in general, I couldn’t say. Honestly, I can’t blame him on any of those.
The mission itself is where it gets weird.
On paper, it sounded almost fun — an interstellar “race track” around a wormhole, Yeager showing the flag while a bunch of ships run laps and pretend it’s about cooperation and not bragging rights. Science was excited about chroniton readings, Engineering about power distribution, and Security… mostly about keeping enthusiastic racers from smearing themselves across our hull.
They herded all the midshipmen into the briefing room. We were in the back, obviously. Commander Jensen did the “this mission feels different” speech they must teach in Command School, and we all pretended we weren’t just waiting to hear who got the exciting assignments.
Naturally, I did not get picked to fly anything. I got shipboard security, VIP coverage, and making sure no one smuggled contraband into spectator areas. Try to contain your shock.
Then the aeroshuttle dock exploded.
Not completely, thank the stars — but enough that Security got very busy, very fast. Suddenly the “fun race with diplomats” turned into “someone sabotaged a critical system and we don’t know why yet.” Our Chief and the CO were juggling investigation and keeping us on-mission while we worked off camera fragments and sensor ghosts, trying to decide if we were one step ahead of the saboteur or three behind.
Then came the wormhole.
You’d have loved it as pure physics. As “being on the ship”? Less so. One moment we’re pushing through the “race track,” all those buoys and distortions, and the next the whole universe lurches sideways. Consoles blew, lights flickered, inertial dampeners took a coffee break. I ended up on the deck with someone’s elbow in my ribs and that old airlock feeling clawing at my throat.
When we got our bearings, the stars were wrong.
I wasn’t on the bridge, but Security is tied into enough feeds to piece things together. Tactical and Science started throwing out names that should’ve stayed in Academy lectures: Defiant. Cardassian ship Os’rusa. Operation Return. Dominion War. Suddenly we weren’t just running a race; we were in the middle of history, and not in the “write an essay about it later” way.
From what I saw and heard, Yeager got caught between the Os’rusa and a pack of Jem’Hadar attack fighters. The fighters had the edge in speed and agility — you’d have pointed that out immediately — and they raked us pretty hard. There was at least one confirmed fatality on the bridge: a Benzite science officer. I only saw the report, but it still hit. We hadn’t even figured out who blew up our dock and now we were being shot at by ships that technically didn’t belong to this time.
Science did what Science does. Lieutenant Commander Qi started talking about chroniton charges and the wormhole as a possible “key” to getting us home. No one sounded confident, but we didn’t have many options. Either we tried to ride temporal physics back to 2405, or we stayed and hoped the Dominion didn’t notice the oddly outfitted Starfleet ship that wasn’t in their original playbook.
Eventually, things… snapped back.
One moment we were braced for another volley, the next everything around us was right again. Uniforms, consoles, all the little things you only notice when they’re wrong — back to normal. Command said we were back in our own time. No one’s really explained how, and I’m not sure I want them to. Passing temporal mechanics is one thing; living inside someone else’s case study is another.
What I do know is that as soon as the timeline stopped trying to twist us into knots, Security was told to resume the “original assignment” — find out who sabotaged the aeroshuttle dock and why, while the ship kept running the race and smiling for the diplomats. Time travel hangover plus active investigation. I miss the Academy sometimes.
Yeager herself seems fine, aside from the occasional groan from the bulkheads and the way Engineering stalks around like someone insulted their ancestors. Sickbay’s at a low simmer — not full casualties, just enough bumps, burns, and stress complaints to keep Cassidy’s team busy. You’d like Cassidy. Efficient, organized, unsettlingly tidy. The kind of CMO whose biobeds are so precisely arranged you’re afraid to breathe on them.
As for me…
I’m okay.
That’s the part you’d ask about, even if you pretended it was just a routine wellness inquiry. There were moments when the decks felt too small and the air too thin, and all I could think about was that transport malfunction back on Luna. But I kept moving. I did the job. I followed the chain of command. I made the calls I was supposed to make, even when my hands wanted to shake more than they did.
I keep thinking about what Torres used to say — that Security’s job isn’t to be fearless, it’s to be reliable. To be the one everyone else can count on, even when they’re afraid. I don’t know if I’ve earned that yet. But I’m trying.
I wish you were here. Not because I want you stuck in a temporal incident — you’re welcome — but because this would be one of those long, late-night conversations where you’d pick apart every tactical decision and emotional reaction until it all made sense. Or at least until I felt less like the smallest person on the biggest ship in the wrong century.
Write back when you can. Tell me your own horror stories about your first assignment. I need to know I’m not the only one whose “welcome aboard” included explosions and temporal nonsense.
And, for the record, I absolutely do miss you. Logically inefficient or not.
— Riley
Encrypted Transmission – Recipient: Midshipman T’Varen
Hey, T’Varen.
I know, I know — you’re going to say that “missing someone” is an inefficient use of emotional energy. Consider this my wildly illogical status report anyway.
So. Yeager.
She still smells like a fabrication bay — new alloys, new plastics, that faint ozone from systems that haven’t quite settled in. Junior officers’ quarters are exactly as glamorous as advertised: two bunks, one couch, one tiny replicator, and a shower that sounds like it’s going to shake loose from the wall. I can reach every corner of the room in three steps, which I’m pretty sure violates some Vulcan standard for personal space.
Captain Braggins is… different than I expected. Sharper than any tactical sim instructor we had, but with this quiet, almost mischievous edge. The new bridge module is all sleek consoles and holo-interfaces. I wasn’t there for the dedication, but from the way people talk, she actually felt something about the quote on the plaque — and you know how fast that kind of thing travels through a crew.
My department head is Lieutenant Artemis d’Tor’an. She’s got this hard-edged calm, like she’s always half a heartbeat from either laughing at you or throwing you at a punching bag. Most of what I know is Yeager gossip and my own first impressions. First time I reported in, she was ordering something that probably violated three medical advisories — double peppermint mocha raktajino, extra everything. The thermos she drinks it from looks like it could double as an impact weapon.
Security culture here is… loud. If they’re teasing you, you’re in. If they’re not, worry. There’s a senior NCO, Gary, who greeted the Chief by accusing her of drinking mint like it was a crime against Klingon heritage. She threatened to cut out his guts and eat them and somehow that was “good morning.” I’m still calibrating.
We’ve also got a VIP on board — a diplomatic type named Mister Tomer. I didn’t meet him right away; all I heard was that he’d holed up in his VIP quarters and wasn’t answering chimes on the morning of the race. Rumor mill labeled him difficult, touchy, not thrilled to be here. Whether he was nervous about the mission, the ship, or just people in general, I couldn’t say. Honestly, I can’t blame him on any of those.
The mission itself is where it gets weird.
On paper, it sounded almost fun — an interstellar “race track” around a wormhole, Yeager showing the flag while a bunch of ships run laps and pretend it’s about cooperation and not bragging rights. Science was excited about chroniton readings, Engineering about power distribution, and Security… mostly about keeping enthusiastic racers from smearing themselves across our hull.
They herded all the midshipmen into the briefing room. We were in the back, obviously. Commander Jensen did the “this mission feels different” speech they must teach in Command School, and we all pretended we weren’t just waiting to hear who got the exciting assignments.
Naturally, I did not get picked to fly anything. I got shipboard security, VIP coverage, and making sure no one smuggled contraband into spectator areas. Try to contain your shock.
Then the aeroshuttle dock exploded.
Not completely, thank the stars — but enough that Security got very busy, very fast. Suddenly the “fun race with diplomats” turned into “someone sabotaged a critical system and we don’t know why yet.” Our Chief and the CO were juggling investigation and keeping us on-mission while we worked off camera fragments and sensor ghosts, trying to decide if we were one step ahead of the saboteur or three behind.
Then came the wormhole.
You’d have loved it as pure physics. As “being on the ship”? Less so. One moment we’re pushing through the “race track,” all those buoys and distortions, and the next the whole universe lurches sideways. Consoles blew, lights flickered, inertial dampeners took a coffee break. I ended up on the deck with someone’s elbow in my ribs and that old airlock feeling clawing at my throat.
When we got our bearings, the stars were wrong.
I wasn’t on the bridge, but Security is tied into enough feeds to piece things together. Tactical and Science started throwing out names that should’ve stayed in Academy lectures: Defiant. Cardassian ship Os’rusa. Operation Return. Dominion War. Suddenly we weren’t just running a race; we were in the middle of history, and not in the “write an essay about it later” way.
From what I saw and heard, Yeager got caught between the Os’rusa and a pack of Jem’Hadar attack fighters. The fighters had the edge in speed and agility — you’d have pointed that out immediately — and they raked us pretty hard. There was at least one confirmed fatality on the bridge: a Benzite science officer. I only saw the report, but it still hit. We hadn’t even figured out who blew up our dock and now we were being shot at by ships that technically didn’t belong to this time.
Science did what Science does. Lieutenant Commander Qi started talking about chroniton charges and the wormhole as a possible “key” to getting us home. No one sounded confident, but we didn’t have many options. Either we tried to ride temporal physics back to 2405, or we stayed and hoped the Dominion didn’t notice the oddly outfitted Starfleet ship that wasn’t in their original playbook.
Eventually, things… snapped back.
One moment we were braced for another volley, the next everything around us was right again. Uniforms, consoles, all the little things you only notice when they’re wrong — back to normal. Command said we were back in our own time. No one’s really explained how, and I’m not sure I want them to. Passing temporal mechanics is one thing; living inside someone else’s case study is another.
What I do know is that as soon as the timeline stopped trying to twist us into knots, Security was told to resume the “original assignment” — find out who sabotaged the aeroshuttle dock and why, while the ship kept running the race and smiling for the diplomats. Time travel hangover plus active investigation. I miss the Academy sometimes.
Yeager herself seems fine, aside from the occasional groan from the bulkheads and the way Engineering stalks around like someone insulted their ancestors. Sickbay’s at a low simmer — not full casualties, just enough bumps, burns, and stress complaints to keep Cassidy’s team busy. You’d like Cassidy. Efficient, organized, unsettlingly tidy. The kind of CMO whose biobeds are so precisely arranged you’re afraid to breathe on them.
As for me…
I’m okay.
That’s the part you’d ask about, even if you pretended it was just a routine wellness inquiry. There were moments when the decks felt too small and the air too thin, and all I could think about was that transport malfunction back on Luna. But I kept moving. I did the job. I followed the chain of command. I made the calls I was supposed to make, even when my hands wanted to shake more than they did.
I keep thinking about what Torres used to say — that Security’s job isn’t to be fearless, it’s to be reliable. To be the one everyone else can count on, even when they’re afraid. I don’t know if I’ve earned that yet. But I’m trying.
I wish you were here. Not because I want you stuck in a temporal incident — you’re welcome — but because this would be one of those long, late-night conversations where you’d pick apart every tactical decision and emotional reaction until it all made sense. Or at least until I felt less like the smallest person on the biggest ship in the wrong century.
Write back when you can. Tell me your own horror stories about your first assignment. I need to know I’m not the only one whose “welcome aboard” included explosions and temporal nonsense.
And, for the record, I absolutely do miss you. Logically inefficient or not.
— Riley