The doors to the Brawley’s largest quarters sighed open as Captain Raku stepped inside. The corridor lighting outside had barely dimmed to the ship’s evening cycle. The artificial dusk in his room was deeper. He stood for a moment at the threshold, motionless.

Mobra eventually moved towards the simple rack where his outer jacket came off in one slow pull. The stiffness of the fabric resisted briefly as it clung to his shoulders and slid down his arms. He let it drop onto the hook before slipping off his boots in silence. His pants came next, then the thermal undershirt. What remained was lean and drawn. The long bones of his face were etched by fatigue. Dark eyes seemed clouded by weeks without reprieve.

He pulled on the one-piece pajama suit waiting on the shelf. It was a simple thing. Navy-blue fabric met with a cut that left his shoulders bare in an A-shirt pattern above trim boyshorts. The material was breathable, resting against his skin comfortably. It reminded him of time home at Free Haven. It was then that he bought these clothes. That was back before command felt like an iron weight bolted into his ribs.

Captain Raku moved to his desk and activated the terminal. The screen glowed with readiness.

“Begin log,” he said tiredly.

The soft beep confirmed it had begun to record.

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 79007.77.”

“The USS Brawley has escorted Terraformer Reesshard, an Orion Space Navy convoy, and the IKS Votaragh across the void of Underspace. Our convoy took out some sort of a construct. It seemed to be some kind of central node, emitting the same matter Underspace was comprised of. Whether it was a hub, an anchor, or something stranger.. disabling it triggered a cascading collapse of the path around us.”

He paused to rest his elbows on the desk.

“This created a trans-planar eddy. The forces at play were beyond standard temporal-spatial mechanics. We were caught in a recursive swirl of phase-slipped reality. We managed to maintain hull integrity throughout.”

Raku leaned back ad flexed his neck with a tired roll.

“It was in that storm that we picked up what we now know was an SOS signal. It reached us fragmented, buried in the eddy’s edge. The Morro Bay was in the process of fighting off a costly Vaadwaur boarding. We emerged from a damaged aperture into normal space and launched an immediate recovery mission. Her systems were down after her warp core suffered a class 1 breech and explosion. She was compromised, but the crew held on. We are now towing her to Deep Space 11.”

He tapped the desk once with a slow breath.

“The Brawley’s crew performed admirably. We encountered two direct engagements with Vaadwaur heavy raiders. We lost forty-seven crewmembers, with two seriously injured casualties transferring to the starbase. They’re going back home, Starfleet careers now over. Counselor Ikastrul Zaa has expressed concern over rising stress indicators across multiple departments. I’ve agreed with her recommendation. We’ve arranged extended liberty and family connections while docked at Deep Space 11.”

He took another breath as his throat tightened.

“On another somber note, we have confirmed the loss of the IKS Votaragh. Her scorched transponder beacon was recovered forty-two lightyears from the eddy collapse. The wreckage itself has not been found.”

Mobra closed his eyes.

“May the memory of her crew speak to the honor of the Klingon Defense Force and the bravery of her people. They did not die silently, nor in vain.”

There was nothing else to say. Not right away.

Raku whispered, “Computer, close and end log.”

The terminal dimmed, darkening the room.

He stood slowly. Bones creaked beneath taut muscle. He stripped the bedcovers back and climbed in sideways. The Captain stretched out and groaned quietly as his spine settled into place. His mattress was tuned for maximum support. It still never felt like his bed on Free Haven.

“Computer,” he muttered as he pulled the blanket to his ribs. “Dim to sleep mode.”

The lights faded. Only the quiet hum of life support and the low, ever-present pulse of the warp core remained. The reassuring hum beat beneath the hull like a starship’s heartbeat.

Raku lay still and thought of his home.

The Bajoran colony had always been an odd patchwork place. It was sort of a spiritual retreat that functioned as an agricultural hub. It was once seen a just a refugee sprawl. It had grown from tents and prefabricated shelters into something more. Free Haven was a place where people rebuilt themselves. Mobra grew up here when it was an escape from the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor.

His mother still kept a small garden near his home. If the wind hit just right, you could smell fresh herbs and machined alloys being fused together several miles away.

He’d spent his teenage years catching prayer songs from morning temple bells while learning to gut power couplings with his uncle.

He began to think of people. Childhood friends. Faces flashed behind his eyes.

Leris was the girl with that big laugh. She used to braid his hair into ridiculous knots before engineering lessons. She had wanted to be a poet. Somehow she ended up a plasma tech on a Bajoran freighter.

Tomid was the quiet one. They had chased lightning storms together on hover bikes, daring each other to go closer each time. The last time Raku heard from him, he’d joined the planet’s civil engineering corps.

And then there was Kellen. Kellen had been… something else.

The man was half-Cardassian, half-Bajoran and full of trouble. He was always drawing circuit maps on walls and skipping secondary school. Kellen always pulled Raku along for the ride. He was always one step into mischief and one breath away from a heartfelt truth.

Raku hadn’t seen Kellen in twelve years.

He rolled onto his side as he stared into the dark. Thoughts of reaching out ran through his mind. There was a message he could send. Just a simple one. Just a hey. You still alive?

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he let the silence settle as memories danced through his mind.

The ship was quiet now. For the first time in weeks, there were no tactical alerts or cascading failures. No one needed him to decide anything.

His eyes slipped closed. Stars drifted past the viewports like ancient, silent witnesses.

=/\=Early the Next Morning=/\=

M’kath stood in the center of the holodeck, its program humming softly around him. He’d chosen a rocky outcropping resembling the wind-carved cliffs of Qo’noS. A gray sky swirled with simulated clouds high above. Wind howled low like a Klingon’s wail of the honored dead. His dark, bare hands clenched and unclenched. The IKS Votaragh was gone. Her crew was scattered among the stars. He would honor them here, through motion and resolve.

The program flared to life.

Twelve Vaadwaur appeared in a staggered formation. Their cloaks flared as they spread across the plateau. Each wore the garb of their fallen empire. Brown cloth folds draped across angular frames fastened by black cords crisscrossing at the chest. Their cobra-like hoods flared with tension, bony diamond-shaped crests catching the pale light’s reflection. M’kath inhaled and centered himself in the stance of the Mok’tagra; the serpent coil. His fists rose. The first Vaadwaur charged.

They met with a snap of momentum. The enemy’s strike was quick, a downward chop meant to disarm. M’kath pivoted. His forearm intercepted the blow as the other hand coiled under the Vaadwaur’s arm. This twisted and drove the attacker’s balance forward. A twist of M’kath’s hips sent the alien flipping over his shoulder and slamming against the rock. The enemy didn’t rise.

Two came next. They circled as M’kath rotated slowly. The snarling Klingon tracked their movement as they danced. One lunged. M’kath sidestepped, caught his wrist and delivered an elbow strike to thud against the forehead beneath his crest. The other Vaadwaur leapt as his arms swung in a wide arc. M’kath ducked and surged upward. His mahogany palm cracked against the enemy’s jaw. M’kath followed with a knee that buckled the attacker’s stance. A spin drove his elbow across the bridge of the Vaadwaur’s bony brow. Blood sprayed as the bony protrusion cut the man’s flesh. Two more down.

The fourth opponent waited. This one was broader and slower. They exchanged blows as their fists clashed. Their feet scrapped against the stone beneath as they fought for a dominant position. M’kath took a hit to the side and staggered. He grunted, forcing breath through his nose. He growled as he locked into a low stance. The Vaadwaur advanced, now overconfident. M’kath exploded upward, fists striking like hammers. One strike crashed into the enemy’s solar plexus. Another smashed into the pocket of his jaw and cheek. The final blow was a kick that sent the Vaadwaur sprawling.

Pain swelled in M’kath’s side. He ignored it with a roar.

Three more emerged from the mist, moving in tandem. The tall one feinted while the others attacked in flanking strikes. M’kath turned into the chaos. He kept his arms fluid. Large feet were never still. He caught one by the cloak’s clasp and yanked him forward, slamming his ridged forehead against theirs. Bone cracked under the impact. Another swung a jagged blade. M’kath deflected it with his forearm and twisted the wrist until the weapon clattered to the stone. He drove a brutal uppercut into the Vaadwaur’s throat and kicked the third in the knee. The boot dropped the Vaadwaur low enough to receive a roundhouse kick that flung him against a crag.

M’kath paused only to sneak a deep breath. Blood ran down his lip in shades of thick violet-red. His muscles trembled with effort. The warrior straightened. His mind kept count of how many enemies he vanquished.

The seventh and eighth attacked together. One wielded a weighted chain, the other stabbed with twin daggers. M’kath stepped into the first swing as the chain wrapped his arm. He pulled hard and dragged the Vaadwaur off balance. A savage heel kick to the kneecap took the man out of the fight. The limb bent backwards in an unnatural direction. The dagger wielder was quicker, slashing toward M’kath’s ribs. The blade grazed flesh. M’kath hissed but caught the Vaadwaur’s wrist mid-strike. Pressure rotated the limb inward and snapped the joint with a sharp twist. One punch that M’kath rocked back and launched from his core collapsed the attackers ribs.

The next came in silence with a knife drawn. This one gave M’kath he impression it had killed before. It mocked the Klingon with a wide stare. M’kath blocked the first swipe before leaping back from the second. The third nicked his cheek. Blood welled. M’kath drove low and tackled the enemy with a grapple. They rolled across stone and grit. M’kath forced the knife hand to the ground. The Vaadwaur’s elbow was pressed down. The Klingon’s breath released as a hiss between clenched teeth. His knee drove into the Vaadwaur’s gut before his fist smashed it again and again. The cobra-hooded figure soon slumped beneath him.

Only two remained. One was tall and lean with narrow yellow eyes and a long polearm made of swirling metal. The other was stocky and built like a siege weapon. M’kath rose and twisted his neck to audibly crack the joints.

The polearm Vaadwaur struck first. Aggressive movements sliced a silver arc through the air. M’kath ducked, rolled, and came up inside the weapon’s range. He struck the enemy’s shoulder joint, then his hip to test his balance. The polearm spun in defense, catching M’kath on the shoulder. He reeled but moved with the pain. M’kath slid in again, elbowing his jaw and catching the pole with one hand. After fighting and twisting, he had the weapon. He swung it once to knock the Vaadwaur out cold.

The final Vaadwaur did not charge. He approached slowly. The taunting figure removed his cloak and let it drop to the stone. The two warriors stared at each other. M’kath’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. His arms were streaked with blood and bruises. The Vaadwaur nodded once in a gesture of mutual recognition. Then he attacked with a sustained yell that echoed across the hillside.

They collided like thunder. The Vaadwaur struck with a ferocity that made his jabs and kicks a blur. M’kath blocked, took hits and returned them in kind. The Vaadwaur slammed a fist into the Klingon’s midsection. M’kath staggered and doubled over. A kick landed across M’kath’s back. He winced and dropped to a knee.

The pain was sharp like fire along his spine. The memory of the Votaragh surged behind his eyes. M’kath could see the image of the ship’s HoD on the viewscreen. He remembered watching how the Vor’cha circled the convoy before it sailed into the aperture alone.

He rose.

The Vaadwaur tried again, arm swinging wide. M’kath caught it, turned his body and flipped the attacker onto the stone. He dropped to a straddle and locked the enemy in a chokehold. The Vaadwaur bucked. M’kath held firm as the cobra-like hood thrashed between his forearms. The Vaadwaur squeaked as his bony ridge scraped against the rocky floor. Breath fled the Vaadwaur’s body, pupils going lifeless and cold as the black palms pressed his airways together.

Silence. The program flickered.

M’kath stood slowly, breath ragged and body aching. His knuckles were split open. Blood trickled from his brow, his lip and his side. He stood in the simulated wind, surrounded by fallen enemies. In tis moment, the pain grounded him.

This was not revenge. This was remembrance.

He whispered the names of his lost crewmates as he walked away. A door appeared in the middle of the cliff as a pensive M’kath returned to the Brawley, covered in sweat and blood.

Counselor Ikastrul Zaa had been spending time in the area, sparking up conversations with passing officers to boost morale. She looked horrified at the sight of the battered warrior. “Commander M’kath”, she began. “Have you been sparring without safety protocols?”

A sheepish grin peeled M’kath’s lips apart. “Perhaps, Lieutenant. What does that make to you?”

Frustration at his condescending tone frustrated the Betazoid. “It means everything to me if one of the ship’s senior officers gets hurt.” A motherly tone took over. “You might outrank me, but I am responsible for your wellbeing.”

“I appreciate your concern, Counselor. I only ask that you have trust, no.. Faith… in me and my ability to protect myself and others.” His voice was deep and full of bass, but kind. “I would never take on more than I could handle.”

Something about the look in his eyes seemed to placate her. “Just promise me that you’ll go to Sickbay and get dermal regenerator treatment.” Her tone was slightly bossy.

M’kath grumbled under his breath and continued on his way to the lounge for breakfast. He wondered if she came to the holodeck just to spy on him.

“I can sense that”, Ikastrul called out after him with frustration.