A Chance Encounter, Part 1
Posted on Sun Mar 9th, 2025 @ 10:07pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Lieutenant JG Riaothren (Ren) ch'Shaorhs
Edited on on Sun Mar 9th, 2025 @ 10:14pm
3,225 words; about a 16 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Holodeck 2, Deck 9, USS Fenrir
Timeline: Day 12
[ON]
Mateo folded his arms, glaring at the holodeck control panel as if sheer willpower could force it into submission. He tapped the interface again, watching as the request processed… and then processed some more… before flashing an infuriating ACCESS DENIED message across the screen.
"Qué carajo..." He muttered under his breath, resisting the urge to smack the console like a malfunctioning replicator.
This was supposed to be simple. A post-shift swim, a run along a simulated stretch of the Argentine coastline, maybe even a few minutes wrestling with that stupid acoustic guitar program that still made his fingers cramp. Instead, he was stuck in some ridiculous permissions loop, locked out of his own recreational time by Starfleet’s insufferable system redundancies.
With a sigh that devolved into a low groan, he pressed his commbadge.
"Gardel to Operations," he said, pacing in front of the control panel, arms folded tight across his chest. "I'm trying to access Holodeck Two, and it’s telling me I don’t have permission. Which is interesting, because I definitely had permission yesterday. And the day before that. And, you know, every day since I came aboard."
The console blinked at him, a silent, unfeeling accomplice in his suffering.
"Any chance we can fix that before I throw myself into the warp core out of sheer frustration?" He flicked a glance at a passing crew member, who looked vaguely alarmed at the comment but wisely chose to keep walking.
Not that he’d actually do it—he wasn’t that dramatic. But he was dramatic enough to file a very strongly worded complaint with Operations if this wasn’t sorted out soon. A guy only had so many coping mechanisms and half of his involved some level of simulated escapism.
He exhaled through his nose, lifting a hand to push the longer, vibrantly dyed strands of his hair back behind his ear. His undercut was crisp and well-maintained, but the longer sections had shifted out of place over the course of the day—not quite messy, just slightly off from how he preferred. He smoothed a palm over the top, a habitual motion, before slipping both hands into his pockets.
His commbadge chirped with an incoming response.
The assistant operations chief was officially off duty. It had been a long shift, and he'd had to put out more than one fire. One incident had almost turned into an actual fire. He was ready to go home where Jairic was going to be cooking dinner. Not replicating, that would be too easy for the Orion teenager, he was actually going to cook. He hadn't told Ren what he was going to prepare, but Ren was okay with that. Just as he was okay with relegating hose duties to his adopted son who was more than okay with taking on that responsibility.
Then, just as he was exiting, a call came in. He could hear anger through the coms system.
"What is it?" he asked trying not to roll his eyes.
Mateo's brow furrowed at the curt reply. Hadn't he just explained the situation? He took a measured breath, striving to keep his tone even.
"I... just told you—I'm locked out of Holodeck Two."
He glanced at the unyielding control panel, its ACCESS DENIED message glaring back at him. The day's earlier frustrations—chasing down misplaced medical supplies across the ship—bubbled beneath the surface.
"Look, I know it's late, and we're all stretched thin prepping for launch, but I could really use some help here."
He ran a hand through his vibrantly dyed hair, the colors a stark contrast to the sterile corridor.
"Is there someone who can come down and assist, or... should I start filing a service request?"
The last thing he wanted was more paperwork, but he wasn't about to let this slide without a solution.
Ren pinched the bridge of his nose shaking his head.
"I'm just getting off duty, but I'll stop by on my way to my cabin. Give me five minutes."
The Andorian's estimate was only slightly off target. It took him seven minutes to make his way down to the holodeck he'd been summoned to.
"Yes?" he asked as he looked at the human. "What seems to be the problem."
Mateo's gaze flicked up as the Andorian approached, and despite his irritation, his brain stalled for just half a second longer than it should have. He hadn’t expected him to be handsome. Not in the obvious, classically structured way, but in a way that threw off his rhythm, like catching the wrong note in a chord progression. Sharp, elegant features. A build that read more fluid than rigid. White hair a touch longer than regulation—enough to be a conscious choice, or maybe just the kind of thing that didn’t rank high on his list of concerns.
The lighting caught against his glacier-blue eyes, and Mateo tracked the way his antennae shifted—not random, not passive. A precise, instinctive sort of awareness, like they were scanning the environment before the rest of him caught up. It was information. Too much of it. All at once.
He forced himself to blink, reset, and refocus. The lieutenant’s arrival was punctual—five minutes, give or take. That was good. Expected. A controlled variable in an otherwise frustrating equation. He curled his fingers inside his pockets, grounding himself in the familiar comfort of structure, of hierarchy, of following logical next steps.
"I appreciate you coming down here, Lieutenant," he said, voice even—measured just enough to mask the restlessness pressing against the edges of his patience. He gestured toward the holodeck control panel, the ever-present ACCESS DENIED flashing at them both, an obnoxious constant in an already exhausting day. "As I mentioned earlier, I’m locked out of Holodeck Two."
His voice came out clipped just slightly sharper than necessary, not out of hostility, but because his brain was still parsing too many things at once. It was a stalling tactic, a recalibration. "I’ve had access without issue until today." He inhaled through his nose, let out a slow, even breath. "I’m hoping it’s a simple fix."
And maybe, if the universe had even fraction of mercy left, he could get through this interaction without his brain adding yet another layer of complication.
"I can see where that would be frustrating," the operations assistant stated. "Let me see what I can do."
He smiled at the other man as he slid past him to the control panel, briefly stepping into his personal space. He pulled out the engineering tricorder and began scanning. both antennae curling slightly forward.
About five minutes later, a smile creased his features.
He reached into his belt and pulled out a small tool.
"Here we go.," he said as he closed the console, "It just eeded an Admin password. Should be good to go now."
Then turning to fully face the junior officer he asked, "So, what kind of program are you running?"
Mateo rocked back slightly on his heels the moment the Andorian stepped into his personal space, the shift instinctual, automatic—a fraction of an inch, barely perceptible, but there. His body stiffened for half a second before he forced himself to relax, though his hands remained buried in his pockets, fingers curled slightly. The faint scent of something cool, metallic, almost like crisp morning air before snowfall, reached him. He wasn’t sure if it was just an Andorian thing or something personal to this one, but either way, he noticed.
And the heat of Ren’s proximity? Noticeable. Too noticeable. Close enough that Mateo could feel the shift in air pressure every time he moved. He ignored it. Or at least, he tried to. Instead, he glared at the holodeck control panel, its blinking ACCESS DENIED message flashing like it was mocking him.
Ren worked in silence, and Mateo exhaled slowly through his nose, doing his best to ignore the way his skin prickled with misplaced awareness. The entire process took five minutes—five minutes where the holodeck refused to acknowledge his very existence. Then, finally, it was over. A chime. The console reset. The doors unlocked. Victory.
A small smile crossed Ren’s face as he turned to deliver the verdict. An Admin password. Mateo’s eyelid twitched. He didn’t even look at Ren. Instead, he squared his stance, planted his hands on his hips, and scowled directly at the control panel like it was a particularly stubborn lab experiment refusing to cooperate.
"You mean to tell me," he began, addressing the display as if it could feel shame, "that this entire time, all I needed was someone to type in a few magic words?" The console, naturally, had no response. His tone sharpened with mock scolding, his patience officially past its expiration date. "You and I are going to have a very serious conversation about your life choices, Holodeck Two."
The Andorian couldn't help himself, his grin widened. He was sympathetic to Mateo's plight and had had similar conversations himself.
Finally, he cut a glance at Ren, exhaling sharply. "At least someone around here is competent," he muttered, the edge of his irritation tempered by something resembling reluctant amusement. His fingers tapped twice against his bicep before he shifted his weight. Ren was still looking at him. Expectant. Curious.
Right. The small talk.
Mateo’s instinct was to shrug it off, say something noncommittal, keep it short. But something in the way Ren asked—not just as filler conversation, but with actual interest—made him pause. "Swim first. Then a run." He rolled a shoulder. "Then probably screw around with an acoustic guitar for a few minutes until my fingers cramp up." His lips quirked slightly, a flicker of self-deprecating humor before he added, almost offhandedly, "Argentina."
A beat.
"Well, a simulation of it, anyway."
There. That was enough.
"Sounds fun, especially the guitar part."
"I guess I should let you get to it, I've got to get home to my son, though I'm not sure he cares for that term."
"Anyway, if you feel like I've got a program I've been wanting to run, but it works best with two. If you're interested maybe we can do it together? Or is that too bold, too forward?"
Mateo’s fingers curled inside his pockets, absently pressing into the fabric as he listened. The comment about the guitar caught him off guard—most people, if they asked at all, focused on the swim or the run. The practical, active elements. The things that made sense. Guitar, though? That was different. That was personal. That was something he still sucked at.
Heat crept up the back of his neck, slow and betraying, the kind that felt more irritating than outright embarrassing. He exhaled through his nose, resisting the knee-jerk reaction to brush it off entirely. Instead, he settled on a half-shrug, rolling his shoulder with an air of forced nonchalance that didn’t quite land. “I mean, fun is a strong word. I’m still terrible at it.” He winced slightly at his own honesty but didn’t backpedal.
Ren kept speaking, and Mateo listened, though his fingers flexed slightly inside his pockets when something in the lieutenant’s phrasing caught his attention. A son. That… wasn’t something he had accounted for. The first-impression framework his mind had pieced together for Ren—precise, a little refined, self-assured with just enough bite to make things interesting—didn’t include fatherhood. And the way he’d said it, not sure he cares for that term, added an extra layer.
His fingers curled again, pressing briefly into the fabric before he pulled one hand free, letting his knuckles graze against his bicep as he filed the thought away. Not the time. Not his business. Just another unexpected variable to quietly shove into the ‘Figure Out Later’ folder in his head.
Then came the invitation.
His brain latched onto it immediately, running the mental equivalent of a full diagnostic scan before he had time to stop himself. This wasn’t a casual see-you-around or a halfhearted social nicety—it was specific. Intentional. Not a lot of people invited him to do things.
He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to go, but because his mind immediately defaulted to analysis mode. Was this one of those polite, no-pressure offers where declining wouldn’t make things weird? Or was this the kind of thing where agreeing actually mattered? How many possible outcomes did this have? Five? Ten?
Before his thoughts could spiral further, Ren cut through the noise, acknowledging the risk outright. Too bold? Too forward?
Mateo’s lips parted slightly before he caught himself, and something about that helped. It wasn’t just in his head. That made it easier to process.
He tilted his head, studying Ren for a fraction longer than necessary. Something about the way he carried himself, the way he asked, the way he let the possibility of rejection hang in the air without trying to fill the space with justifications—it didn’t feel forced. It didn’t feel like a test.
His mouth quirked at the corner, not quite a smirk but something close. “If it is, at least you’re self-aware about it.” His tone was dry, but without bite, the words carrying a flicker of something closer to amusement than deflection.
He let the moment stretch, fingers tapping idly against his arm in an uneven rhythm, before exhaling slightly, like he was resigning himself to something that had already been decided before he even opened his mouth. “Depends on the program,” he admitted, the last traces of heat still lingering at the back of his neck.
Ren had mentioned Jairic, though not by name more as an aside. He didn't want to prolong the encounter or the conversation, at the same time, he didn't want to be rude either. At the same time, he didn't want to cut things short either. He knew he needed friends. To put himself out there,
"You think I'm being self-aware?" he asked his antennae turning toward Mateo, "then I guess I'm making progress."
"The program is probably one that won't be completed in one session, especially not if it's just an hour long. But, here is the gist of it. We are on a shuttle being chased by a renegade band of Klingons, or a different villain if you prefer. The ship is damaged and they're hot on our as...tails."
"We crash land on a planet that is Class M, though barely. We have to deal with a hostile environment, a jungle as of now, plus whoever it is that is chasing us."
"Does that interest you at all?"
Mateo absorbed the premise, his mind already mapping out the scenario in the background while the rest of him weighed the real question at hand. A shuttle chase, a crash landing on a barely habitable Class-M planet, a jungle filled with environmental hazards and hostiles actively hunting them down.
The logical part of his brain immediately started picking apart the mechanics. How damaged was the shuttle? What were the survival odds on impact? What kind of weapons and supplies were they working with? How long before search-and-rescue became a factor? The gears turned, the simulation breaking down into moving pieces, a puzzle demanding to be solved.
But underneath the analysis, his instincts were already protesting.
This wasn’t the kind of program he usually ran. He liked structure, logic, predictability. A sterile, chemically controlled pool, where the water’s composition and temperature remained perfectly regulated. A timed run through a straightforward, well-lit track—no surprises, no variables. Even a frustrating attempt at music followed a set progression, something he could practice, refine, improve.
This, though? This would feel too real. The simulated adrenaline, the artificial but all-too-convincing tension, the pulse of simulated fear running just beneath the surface—it didn’t matter that his brain knew it wasn’t real. His body wouldn’t.
And that was the problem.
His jaw shifted, just barely, the only visible sign of the tension creeping up his spine. Too many variables. Too much unpredictability. He rolled his lips together, fingers twitching slightly before curling into a loose fist against his bicep. The silence stretched just long enough to make it clear he wasn’t brushing the idea off, but actually considering it.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, though he still felt off-balance. “I mean… I won’t say no.” His tone was measured, balanced on the fine line between reluctant and intrigued.
He hesitated, searching for the right phrasing—one that explained his reservations without making it sound like he was fragile or afraid. “But I’m not exactly an action-adventure holoprogram kind of guy.”
His fingers flicked once against his arm, a quick, restless motion, his mind already anticipating the questions that might follow. He was used to explaining himself, but he didn’t always like doing it. “I don’t really get the appeal of choosing to be hunted down and possibly murdered for sport, even if it’s simulated.” The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, the words dry but not unkind. “I’m just saying, if I wanted to feel that level of existential dread, I could just go sit in the mess hall during peak hours.”
Ren’s expression didn’t change much, but his antennae were still angled toward him, tracking. Mateo exhaled again, slower this time, like he was giving himself permission to actually consider it.
“…But I’ll think about it.” The words weren’t dismissive, just carefully chosen. He wasn’t making promises. Not yet.
His mouth curved slightly, self-deprecating humor threading into his tone. “And maybe run a risk assessment on the likelihood of me embarrassing myself horribly in the first ten minutes.”
Ren wasn't Vulcan, not even close, so he couldn't read the other man's thoughts, or even sense his emotions. He was, however, a keen observer and rather adept at reading social cues, even if he didn't always respond to those cues the way others might. He could read the tension, the struggle in Mateo's face. He didn't know what might be behind it, nor did he want to know. It wasn't his business or his concern. Still he did observe it.
He didn't need to be Vulcan to know how different the two of them were. He was a risk taker, an adrenaline junkie. It wasn't as if he wouldn't have enjoyed the simulation that the junior officer was running. He would have. It was just that he was an action kind of guy.
He took a step back to give Mateo space physically and metaphysically.
"Fair enough, and no pressure. I guess everyone has their own tastes."
'
"The only other one I brought with me is much more tame, a visit to Paris, as the dawn of the twenty-first century. But, I haven't run that in years and... and I'm not ready to try that one. Not now."
[To be continued in Part 2]
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
&
Lieutenant JG Riaothren (Ren) ch'Shaorhs
Assistant Chief Operations Officer
USS Fenrir
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