The Leif Erikson was quiet. Too quiet.

Normally, even during repairs, there were plenty of comforting background noises. Voices in the Mess Hall, people moving about the corridors, everyone chatting and laughing. With the recent shore leave, however, it seemed like the entire crew had taken advantage of the break and gone on vacation, which left the Erikson’s corridors feeling cold and empty. 

Vail O’Donnell did not like it. 

She paced the decks like a restless prisoner, with her hands buried in her pockets and her shoulders tight. She had tried reading in her quarters, tried training in the gym, and she even tried napping, but nothing worked. Her skin felt like it was itching with the need to do something, anything to alleviate the boredom, and she knew exactly where to find her distraction. 

She found Tom Sargent sitting in a corner of the Mess Hall, poring over a stack of PADDs in front of him. “Did you know,” she started, leaning against the booth seat opposite, “That you are probably the only guy who thinks security reports are fun?”

Tom didn’t look up immediately. “It’s not fun, it’s necessary. We’ve got new crew members joining us after leave, and I need to make sure they are properly cleared.”

Vail dropped herself into the booth seat. “You know what isn’t necessary? Working during shore leave. C’mon, man, even Garion went fishing, and that guy practically lives in Engineering. Seriously, I’m pretty certain I’ve seen a cot in there behind the warp core. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re still free for like, a week.” 

“Free does not mean idle,” Tom said, finally looking up at her. His dark eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall. “Besides, I’d rather stay here than stand in line for two hours outside some replicated bar, pretending the starbase is any more interesting.”

“Wrong answer,” Vail said, leaning forward and grinning, “The correct answer is, ‘I’d rather spend my time with you, Vail, Par’Mach’kai, doing something wildly irresponsible and fun.’”

Tom gave her a look that was equal parts exasperation and admiration. “What irresponsible thing are you suggesting for us this time, bangwI’?”

“Holodeck,” she said immediately, almost before he had finished speaking, “Adventure. You, me, and no one to tell us no.”

Tom put the PADD down and narrowed his eyes with suspicion. “What kind of adventure?”

“The best kind,” Vail said, sliding from the booth and hopping to her feet. “Pirates.”

“Pirates,” he said flatly, as though testing the word aloud to see whether it sounded more ridiculous than it did in his head. 

“The golden age in the Caribbean, specifically,” she clarified, “Tall ships, rum, cutlasses, cannon fire. What’s not to love?”

He stared at her blankly for a long moment. “You’re serious,” he said finally. 

“Completely,” she said, crossing her arms, “You can’t tell me you’re gonna sit here for a whole week doing… this.” She gestures to the stack of PADDs.

Tom sighed deeply. He always sighed deeply when he was about to give in. 

“Fine,” he muttered. 

Vail grinned triumphantly. “I knew you’d see reason.”

Vail was waiting in the holodeck, tapping her foot impatiently when Tom finally showed up. “You’re late,” she said to him with mock disappointment.

“Sorry,” he replied, “I just had to finish a few more reports.”

“I’ll not make you walk the plank just yet,” she replied, giving him a quick hug and a kiss. “Let’s get this adventure started!” she said, pumping her fist into the air, “Computer, run program O’Donnell Three-Two.” The computer chirped its acknowledgement, then the holodeck hummed to life, and the orange and black grid of its walls dissolved around them. 

Salty wind whipped Vail’s hair. It billowed the tails of her long, extravagant Pirate’s coat behind her. Her gloved right hand found itself on the jewel-encrusted hilt of a saber, and her left was tucked into the wide leather belt at her waist, near the handle of a flintlock pistol. The deck beneath her tall boots rocked gently back and forth with the motion of the sea. All around them stretched the endless expanse of deep blue ocean under the blazing sun. 

The Crimson Cutlass creaked and groaned like a living thing, its many tall sails billowing overhead, ropes swaying languidly along. 

“Oh yes,” Vail said, taking a deep breath and grinning widely. 

When she turned around, Tom was standing rigidly behind her, wearing a plain navy jacket and boots, looking deeply uncomfortable with the Tricorn hat he was wearing. 

“What,” he asked dryly, “am I wearing?”

“You,” Vail answered, stepping closer and admiring his outfit, “are my first mate, Grey Tom. Loyal, deadly, a little broody, secretly a riot at parties.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, adjusting his hat, “I already regret this.”

She didn’t answer; she only smirked at him.

The holo-NPC crew milled around them, a gaggle of tattooed men with missing teeth, a few women with scarred faces and wicked grins, all muttering to themselves. They kept sneaking suspicious glances at Tom. 

And then, as if on some kind of cue, one of them shouted, “The new first mate is soft! Look at ‘im, ‘e don’ even know ‘ow to ‘old ‘is cutlass proper! The Cap’n’s gone soft, choosin’ ‘im!” 

Another spat on the deck. “Aye, Redfang’s lost ‘er edge! It’s toime this ship ‘ad a real Captain!”

Of course. A mutiny.

Vail rolled her eyes, then leaned against the railing, one hip cocked, watching the crew circle Tom like wolves. She could have stepped in – but where was the fun in that?

Instead, she tossed him a cutlass. The blade glinted in the sunlight as it spun through the air towards him. “Show them why you’re my first mate,” she said with a smirk.

Tom caught the sword without hesitation. He looked around at the pirates surrounding him, all snarling and laughing. “I’d really prefer if we talk this through,” he began.

One of the pirates lunged at him. His Klingon reflexes took over. He sidestepped, grabbed the pirate’s arm mid-swing, and twisted sharply. The pirate let out a howl of pain and dropped the sword they’d been swinging. Another one came at him from the left. Tom spun, still clutching the first, and sent an elbow into the second’s ribs before kicking him into the mast, where he sank to the floor groaning in pain. 

The crew hesitated – Tom didn’t. He moved through the crowd like a blur, the blade of his cutlass flashing in the sunlight, blocking opposing swings. Another swung at him from behind, Tom sent the pommel of his sword hard into his ribs, folding him on the spot. In seconds, three pirates lay sprawled on the deck, groaning. By the time the last one had stumbled backwards and taken off from the fear, the mutiny was over. 

Vail, who was eating an apple and still leaning on the railing, began applauding slowly. “Wow,” she said, “That was kinda hot.”

Tom growled at her. “They were not real.”

“Real enough for me,” Vail said, moving closer, dragging a finger up his arm. “I am definitely keeping you, Grey Tom.” 

He gave her a wry look, but he did not pull away. 

Somewhere above them, lost among the sails and rigging, a lookout shouted, “Sails on the port side!”