Lieutenant Elara Roslin didn’t expect to be working on leave—but she couldn’t help herself.

Casperia’s southern coastline was home to a cluster of independent fishing villages, culturally rich but politically strained. Tensions between native Casperians and newer Federation migrants had been rising for weeks over shared marine harvesting zones.

Elara had only intended to visit the coast to photograph the famed dusk-pearled reefs. But the moment she overheard a verbal dispute between two vendors in the local market, something clicked: diplomacy wasn’t a job—it was who she was.

By that afternoon, she’d been invited to mediate a discussion between community elders, translating cultural gestures and guiding communication between hot-headed parties. Her charm and clarity won people over quickly.

When one elder asked why she was doing this on her vacation, Elara smiled and replied:
“Because peace doesn’t punch a timecard.”

Still, she found time for herself. At sunrise, she’d walk barefoot along the beach, Trill robes brushing against the foam, hair pulled into a simple braid, her journal tucked beneath one arm. At night, she’d light one lantern in the old ritual way—a nod to her heritage—and send it across the waves, silently honoring her symbiont ancestors.

Casperia Prime hadn’t been her plan.

But as the wind braided through her hair and laughter echoed from the reopened market square, Elara realized something: this place had healed something in her she didn’t know was broken.