Echoes of a Clean Slate

Posted on Sat Feb 8th, 2025 @ 7:23pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel

1,266 words; about a 6 minute read

Personal Log – Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Sciences Specialist, USS Fenrir

I don’t even know why I’m doing this. Personal logs aren’t the same as journaling. At least when I write, I don’t have to listen to my own voice. I don’t have to worry about saying something out loud that I might regret later. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I need to hear myself think for once. Or maybe I just don’t want to deal with the silence.

It’s been four days since I came aboard the Fenrir. Four days to settle in, to get a feel for the ship, to size up the crew, and to wonder if this is it—if this is the place where it all finally clicks, or if I’m just going to fuck it all up again.

I keep thinking about what they told me before I transferred. How this is my final opportunity, my last shot before Starfleet decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth and tosses me out. I don’t know if I care as much as I should. Or maybe I care too much, and that’s the problem. I’ve been running in circles for three years, bouncing from one ship to another like some kind of defective piece of equipment they can’t quite fix. If I crash and burn here too, maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t belong in Starfleet.

But then what? Go back home? Pretend like I could ever be happy there? Renata and Benji would say they don’t care what I do as long as I’m happy, but I know better. I know they worry about me. I know they expect me to finally get my shit together. I miss them so much it makes my chest ache, and that’s the real kicker—missing them but knowing I can't just go home. That I don’t want to, because then it means I failed. Again.

So, I stay.

And I watch.

And I wait.

The Fenrir is fresh out of refit, and it shows. The air smells clean, crisp—like freshly replicated materials with just a hint of the sterile bite of Starfleet-grade disinfectant. The deck plating has this slight give underfoot, just enough to tell me it’s newer than most of the ships I’ve served on. The lighting is calibrated just right, bright without feeling like I’ve stepped into an interrogation room.

The lab is mine. The consoles hum at a precise, rhythmic frequency, their smooth surfaces cool under my fingertips. Everything is arranged to perfection, untouched by chaos or interference. This is my space, and no one has come barging in to rearrange it—yet.

People, though? People are exhausting.

I walked into my meeting with Commander Hanlon expecting the usual. A new ship. A new XO. Another round of “We’re keeping an eye on you, Crewman Gardel.” Maybe a lecture. Maybe some patronizing We believe in second chances speech. I’ve heard it all before.

But Hanlon wasn’t what I expected.

He didn’t come at me with a list of my disciplinary infractions or a thinly veiled warning about what would happen if I screwed up again. He didn’t ask for some performative promise to be better, either. Instead, he just… talked. Like I was a person, not a problem.

And then he said something that threw me off completely:

“You have a clean slate here.”

No one’s ever said that to me before.

People say they’ll give you a second chance, but they don’t really mean it. They always keep the first chance—the failed chance—tucked in their back pocket, ready to throw in my face the moment I make things inconvenient.

But Hanlon? I think he actually meant it.

And I don’t know if that’s better or worse.

I wasn’t looking for company when I walked into Valhalla. I just wanted a drink. One drink. Some quiet, maybe a little time to just sit and watch people without having to participate. But of course, that’s not how things went.

Lieutenant Aria Rice had other plans.

She was already at the bar when I got there, dressed like she didn’t have a care in the world, already a drink ahead of me. I barely had time to get my beer before she was talking—at me, to me, around me. I wasn’t sure which.

People like Aria make me nervous. Not because they’re dangerous, but because they don’t give me room to disappear.

And somehow, before I even realized it was happening, I was talking back.

That’s not supposed to happen.

People like me don’t make friends. Not easily. Not without expecting it to go sideways eventually.

I wasn’t expecting much when I walked into Lieutenant Aristede Steele’s office for my mandatory counseling session. His office wasn’t the cold, clinical kind of space I expected. It actually felt… comfortable. Warm lighting. A couch that didn’t scream sit here and confess your damage. Like he actually wanted people to feel at ease.

That should’ve been my first warning.

And somehow, I ended up talking.

I don’t do that. I don’t just tell people things.

But he made it easy. Too easy.

And that makes me nervous.

I don’t get attached to quarters. What’s the point? It’s just a place to sleep between shifts. A temporary space.

But these?

These are different.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m just occupying space until I get transferred off to the next ship that doesn’t know what to do with me.

I don’t know if this place is home.

But maybe it’s the closest I’ve come to having one in a long time.

I broke the damn console.

I should’ve left it at that. Let her do her job, say thanks, and move on.

But then we started talking.

Not about the console. About biology.

Hel told me how Axans don’t experience love. Not in the way humans do. No romance. No attachments. Reproduction is just a biological function to them—practical, necessary, but without any emotional weight.

And then, before she left, she did something else unexpected.

She invited me to dinner.

I said yes.

I don’t know what that means yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe something.

But for the first time in a long time, I’m curious.

And that’s dangerous.

I lean back, exhaling slowly. I keep going over everything—every interaction, every conversation, every unexpected moment that’s happened since I came aboard. Hanlon’s trust. Aria’s persistence. Aristede’s patience. Hel’s honesty. I’ve been so used to drifting, to treating every assignment as just another stop before I inevitably get moved along. But for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the end.

I don’t know what that means yet.

I don’t know what happens next.

And for the first time in a long time, that thought isn’t entirely terrible.

End log.

 

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