Sand & Stone, Part 3
Posted on Sun Mar 16th, 2025 @ 10:59pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Commander Scarlet Blake
4,250 words; about a 21 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Ready Room, Deck 1, USS Fenrir
Timeline: Day 8
[ON - Continued]
Blake remained silent for a long moment, just soaking up the words, making sense of them...and filling in the blanks of what he had left out.
It all rang true from what she had read. It was one big vicious circle. Officers took a tougher stance on him based on his reputation...and Mateo braced himself by raising his defences and digging his heels in further.
"Gardel, you will be treated like any other crewmember here, no more, no less," she replied in her customary soft, calm tone. "You will not have higher expectations placed on you, you will not be subjected to harsher treatment due to your past record. I respect your talent, and your work won't be interfered with unless it is keeping you from any duties we require of you during our operations.
"But, I will need and expect you to follow orders, especially during alerts and on away missions. I welcome questions and opinions, that's why we have a starship full of people rather than a ship run by computers. But in the same way I'm going to trust you to do excellent work here and do your best to work within our hierarchy, I need you to trust that when officers give an order, there's a reason for it. And sometimes, when a crew member doesn't follow an order it can have serious consequences; people can get hurt or die. That's what I care about."
Mateo sat still, absorbing her words.
For once, there was no undertone of warning, no veiled expectation of failure, no implied threat that one misstep would send him packing. She was saying he’d be treated like anyone else. No more, no less. It shouldn’t have felt strange, but it did.
His lips pressed together as he considered that, his fingers tapping once against his knee before stilling. No harsher treatment. No higher expectations. Just… fair. A loud part of him wanted to question it, to pull it apart and examine the pieces. Was it really that simple? Could it be? His experience told him no.
But she hadn’t framed it like a false reassurance. She hadn’t said it would be easy or that everyone would forget his past. She was just telling him how things would be. And that was different.
For the first time, Mateo really looked at her.
She wasn’t what he expected. Even seated, there was an ease to her posture—upright but not rigid, in control but not exerting it. Some captains took up space. She didn’t need to. Her blue eyes were steady, composed—not cold, not detached, just… seeing. It wasn’t the kind of scrutiny that pinned someone in place, waiting for a misstep. Instead, it was the kind that assessed without assuming.
Most officers sized him up like they were waiting for him to prove them right—expecting resistance, failure, insubordination. But Blake? She was observing, listening, considering. Not playing a role. Not trying to be something. Just… being.
And that was different.
His gaze flicked toward hers—chocolate brown meeting clear blue. Just for a second, long enough to search for the catch, the condition, the unspoken warning. But there was none.
For the briefest moment, there was a softness in his gaze, something almost hesitant. Like he wanted to believe her.
And that—that was what unsettled him the most.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting his posture—not quite relaxing, but shifting. “I appreciate that,” he said finally. And he did. Even if part of him didn’t know what to do with it yet.
The rest of her words settled in next. She trusted his work. She wouldn’t interfere unless it was necessary. She respected his expertise. That was even rarer than fairness, and it left him momentarily at a loss.
But then came the other part—orders, hierarchy, the expectation that he would follow commands when it mattered. That wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t even unreasonable.
But it wasn’t easy.
Mateo let out a quiet breath, his fingers flexing briefly before he spoke. “I understand,” he said carefully, measured. “I know orders exist for a reason.” He hesitated, swallowing as his gaze flicked toward the PADDs on her desk before returning to her.
“It’s not—” He took another second, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t question things just to question them.” That, at least, he could admit now.
“I’ve seen people get hurt because of bad calls. I’ve seen officers make decisions just to reinforce the chain of command, not because it was the right choice.” His voice didn’t rise, but there was something restrained in his tone. A memory, perhaps. Or several.
But he shook his head slightly. Reframe. Keep it relevant.
“I get that that’s not how it’s supposed to be,” he continued. “And I get that following an order isn’t always about agreeing with it—it’s about making sure no one dies because of hesitation.”
A pause. His fingers curled lightly against his knee, then released.
“I can do that.”
And he meant it. Maybe the execution wouldn’t be flawless. Maybe he’d have to check himself in the moment, fight against old instincts, and remind himself why he was doing this.
But he could do it.
Blake gave a single, brisk nod, accepting his assurance at face value. Unless she was given cause to doubt him, if he told her he could do it, she'd believe it. And what he'd said...frankly, it was true. She'd seen her fair share of dubious decisions and bad orders in her time. "The truth is, as well trained as we are, we're still people, we're all fallible. So to be clear, I'd expect every person on this ship to speak up if they're concerned a bad decision is being made," she assured, because he'd made it clear he wasn't in the business of questioning orders for the sake of it. He was a logical man, an intelligent one. He was more than aware of the difference.
Blake leant forward a little to him, her interest already shifting slightly as she crossed her legs to settle clasped hands on her knee. "Why...did you join Starfleet?" she asked softly, the honest curiosity clear in her voice. It wasn't pointed, it wasn't accusing, it was a genuine question. Because he could have become a civilian scientist, or a corporate one.
Mateo didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t struggling for words—he knew exactly why he was here—but the question required precision, and precision was something he valued. His fingers curled slightly against his thigh, grounding himself in the moment before he exhaled and met Blake’s gaze.
“I didn’t join Starfleet out of a sense of duty or devotion,” he said evenly, his tone matter-of-fact rather than dismissive. “I joined because it was the most direct path to what I actually wanted.”
He shifted slightly, his gaze flicking toward the viewport before returning to Blake. “My field is xenohistology, specializing in microanatomy—the cellular study of alien organisms. The kind of research I do isn’t confined to a single species, a single lab, or even a single world. Starfleet is the only institution in the galaxy with unrestricted access to biological discoveries on an interstellar scale. The Federation’s mission to seek out new life? That’s not just an abstract principle to me. That’s the foundation of my work.”
His fingers tapped a slow, absent rhythm against his knee, the movement mirroring his thoughts. “Through Starfleet, I can study exoplanetary microbial life, alien immune systems, unknown pathogens—cellular structures that challenge everything we understand about xenobiology. No civilian research institution has the reach, the resources, or the clearance to match what Starfleet encounters in a single year.” His voice remained even, but there was a quiet intensity now, the unmistakable conviction of someone who knew exactly why they did what they did.
He wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t being combative. He was simply telling the truth.
Mateo sat back slightly, not stiff, but contained, maintaining careful control over how much he revealed. “I know Starfleet means something different to a lot of people. For them, it’s a calling, a duty, a purpose.” He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if weighing his next words. “That was never what it was for me. Starfleet is a means to an end. Not because I don’t respect what it stands for, but because my reasons for being here have never been about service.”
He met Blake’s gaze, unwavering, not defensive but deliberate.
“My work is what matters. The discovery. The ability to go beyond the limits of a single world and actually understand what’s out there on a fundamental, cellular level. To study what no one else has studied. To push the boundaries of biological science in ways that just aren’t possible anywhere else.”
For all the ways he resisted authority, all the ways he had struggled to fit within Starfleet’s rigid structure, this had never been in question.
“I never wanted Starfleet,” he admitted, quieter now, more introspective than defiant. “But I wanted this. The research, the access, the chance to work at the very edge of what we know about life itself.”
His words hung between them, neither an apology nor a plea—just a simple, unvarnished truth. Starfleet had never been about belonging for him. It had been about possibility. And as long as that remained, so did he.
Blake was satisfied with the response. It had the ring of truth, and it was a journey she could imagine all too easily for an intelligent mind like his. And in a way, she related. Not with the scientific perspective, but with joining the fleet as a means to an end. "I think I understand," she assured softly, nodding slowly as she tapped a finger thoughtfully against the surface of her desk. "You should be warned though, that other fleet stuff, the duty, the ideals...it has a tendency to creep up on you over time," she chuckled softly, but clearly meant it.
Mateo exhaled slowly, letting Blake’s words settle between them. His head tilted slightly, considering them, a flicker of wry amusement passing through his expression. "That wouldn’t surprise me," he admitted, his voice even, measured. "I never came here for the duty or the ideals—but I’d be lying if I said some of it didn’t overlap with my work."
He shifted slightly in his chair, adjusting his posture rather than letting his fingers reach for anything. "Starfleet’s mission—exploration, seeking out new life, expanding the borders of knowledge—it all feeds into what I do. If you want to study the cellular biology of alien species, if you want to see how life takes shape in ways we’ve never encountered before, there’s no better place to do it. No civilian research institution has the reach, the clearance, or the sheer scope of opportunity that Starfleet provides."
He inhaled, rolling his shoulders, the movement subtle but purposeful—shedding the weight of an admission that had landed closer to home than expected. "So, in that sense, maybe I do care about what Starfleet does—at least in the parts that matter to me." His gaze caught hers then, holding steady for a beat too long before he looked away.
"But I wouldn’t say I’m here because I believe in the greater philosophy of Starfleet," he continued, his tone shifting—drier now, edged with something self-aware. "I won’t be giving any speeches about unity or the betterment of the Federation. If some part of me starts caring about all that other fleet stuff… well, I guess we’ll see."
A hint of something unreadable flickered in his expression before he shrugged, lips twitching in an almost self-deprecating smile. "I’m sure you’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so’ if it happens."
"Oh, you can be sure of that," Blake assured lightly, a touch of humour lilting in her voice. And when that day came, she absolutely would. "More importantly though, what you just said, about what the fleet does offer you...it sounds like pretty strong motivation to make sure this works out for you," she pointed out gently. It wasn't a lecture. It was more her counselling experience coming to the surface for the moment. Only he could make this work, and it wouldn't be for her or the fleet, it would be for himself.
Mateo exhaled softly, his gaze flickering toward the viewport for a moment before returning to Blake. There was no immediate retort, no sharp deflection—just a quiet pause as her words settled.
“I know,” he admitted, his voice steady but subdued. No sarcasm, no embellishment—just the simple truth.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
He tapped his fingers once against his knee, grounding himself in the moment, then straightened slightly in his chair. "That’s the plan."
It wasn’t a grand declaration, but it didn’t need to be. He wasn’t in the business of making promises he couldn’t keep. But this—this was something he had to get right.
"Good," Blake's reply was simple, but it had weight behind it. Because it had been both what she had wanted to hear and what she would hold him to. "So, with that in mind, why don't you tell me what you're good at, Mister Gardel."
Mateo’s lips pressed together briefly, considering the question. It wasn’t unexpected, but something about the way she phrased it gave him pause. Not what do you do, but what are you good at. A distinction.
He shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers brushing absently over the fabric of his uniform before settling. "Cellular biology," he answered first, without hesitation. "Xenohistology, microanatomy—breaking down how alien organisms function at the smallest scale." His voice was measured, but there was an underlying certainty to it, a quiet confidence.
A pause. Then, his gaze flicked back to hers. "I’m good at seeing patterns. At finding connections in places most people don’t think to look." He tilted his head slightly. "And when I don’t know something, I figure it out."
His fingers tapped once against his knee before stilling. "I’m also good at making people regret underestimating me," he added, drier now, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Though I suppose that’s not an officially recognized skill set."
"Oh, I don't know, you'd be surprised," Blake allowed a chuckle to escape as she shook her head gently, reaching for her now cold coffee. It was an interesting choice he'd made. Making sense of the overwhelming chaos that was organic life. A world he seemed to feel awkward in. Figuring it out one cell at a time. At least it was more constructive than her own attempt to make sense of it all...picking up a rifle. "I'll be honest with you, Mister Gardel, I have never been scientifically minded. It's why it's so important to me to have the strongest science team we can gather."
Mateo exhaled a quiet huff of amusement, his gaze flicking toward the cold coffee in her grasp before returning to her. “Well, I’ve never been the military-minded type,” he admitted, a wry tilt to his lips. “So I guess that makes us even.”
He tapped his fingers idly against the desk, considering. “But I get it. Science can feel… detached. All logic and patterns, breaking things down into smaller pieces to make sense of the whole.” His gaze flicked toward her then, something more searching behind it. “But that’s how I’ve always understood things. The way people work, the way they think? That’s the part I’ve never quite figured out.”
Leaning back slightly, he rolled one shoulder in a half-shrug. “You picked up a rifle to make sense of the chaos. I picked up a microscope.” A beat, then a dry smirk. “Maybe I got the easier job.”
A pause. His expression shifted, the humor fading just enough to reveal the real weight behind the question.
“Did it work?”
It wasn’t flippant—it was genuine. She’d drawn a contrast between them, and now he wanted to understand. Because for him, breaking things down to their smallest components had always helped him make sense of life. But war, discipline, command—could those things bring clarity the same way science did?
"Hm..." Blake looked intently into her cup, as if the answer would manifest in the murky depths if she searched long enough. It was a good question. One she would have directed at a patient in her counselling years. "Sometimes," she replied, the most honest response she could find for him. "You bring order to chaos through understanding the building blocks of life...I did it in the physical world by trying to keep the peace, and in the emotional world via psychiatry," she chuckled, because it wasn't unusual for others to question the coupling of the two disciplines.
"The real problem is, it never lasts that long," she added with a cool, half smile, finally looking back to him. "There's always new threats...new traumas...new scientific mysteries. The real question is whether we're the kind of people that keep coming back for more, or grow tired of the wheel of fortune."
Mateo considered her words, his gaze steady, thoughtful. He wasn’t expecting an easy answer—if anything, he respected the honesty in her hesitation. The weight of experience sat behind her response, layered in a way that made him pause.
He traced a slow circle against the desk’s surface with his fingertip before speaking. “I guess that’s the difference between control and understanding,” he mused. “You can study something, break it down to its smallest parts, but that doesn’t mean you can stop it from changing. Just because you name a thing, define it, categorize it—that doesn’t mean it stops evolving.”
His lips pressed together for a moment before he exhaled a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “I used to think understanding was enough. That if you knew how something worked, you could predict it. Control it. But you’re right—it never really lasts.” His gaze flicked toward her then, sharp with something like wry acknowledgment. “But I guess we both keep coming back for more anyway.”
There was no bitterness in the statement, just recognition. Whether it was science, command, psychiatry, or war, they were both in the business of making sense of things that refused to be neatly contained. And yet, neither of them had walked away.
A small smirk ghosted at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe that says more about us than the work itself.”
"That we're gluttons for punishment?" she shook her head with a small smile, finishing the coffee off before setting the cup down with a firm clink on the desk. Her posture straightened, and she seemed lighter, as if physically resetting to move the conversation along to more practical matters. "Is there anything you'd like to ask while you're here?"
Mateo’s smirk deepened, and then—unexpectedly—he laughed.
It was a warm, rich sound, smooth like velvet and edged with genuine amusement, free from the usual dry sarcasm or quiet derision he often cloaked himself in. It wasn’t the tight, short-lived chuckle of politeness, nor the sharp, mirthless huff he used to deflect. This was something else entirely—something rare, something real. The kind of laughter that wasn’t forced out but freed, slipping past his defenses before he could think to stop it. It hit the air with an ease that felt foreign, even to him, and for a fleeting moment, the weight he carried—the constant bracing, the ever-present tension in his shoulders—simply dissolved.
And just like that, everything about him shifted.
The tight coil of guardedness that defined his posture loosened, the sharpness of his features—so often drawn in quiet defiance—smoothed into something almost effortless. His expression, usually measured and edged with wary calculation, opened. Even the ever-present crease between his brows, the unconscious knot of skepticism he carried, disappeared. The smile that lingered on his lips was unguarded, subtle but felt, and in that moment, he wasn’t just striking—he was breathtaking.
There was something about it, about him in that rare instance of unburdened joy, that was almost disarming. Laughter suited him, even if he hardly ever let himself indulge in it. It made him brighter, less untouchable, his warmth finally breaking through the icy precision he wore like armor. If someone had been watching, they might have had the fleeting thought that he should smile more often, that this version of him—the one that wasn’t posturing, wasn’t treading carefully around unspoken expectations—was the closest thing to effortlessly captivating.
His chest rose and fell with the remnants of his amusement, a slow exhale carrying the last of it away as he shook his head, lips still curled in something not quite a smirk, not quite a grin.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice rich with lingering mirth. “That sounds about right.”
The moment settled between them, unhurried, unforced.
As his shoulders subtly rolled back into place, the tension crept in again, but not all at once. He wasn’t bracing—at least, not yet. He was simply readjusting, recalibrating. His fingers drummed once against the desk before stilling, a grounding rhythm to re-center himself. Across from him, Blake had straightened as well, the small shift in her demeanor not lost on him. The way she set her cup down, the way she squared her posture—it was a reset. A moment acknowledged, then compartmentalized, filed away as they moved toward something functional.
Is there anything you’d like to ask?
Mateo considered the question, the weight of it sitting heavier than expected.
There were a dozen things he could ask—strategic things, calculated things, the kind of questions designed to gauge her the way she had likely been gauging him. But all of those were surface-level, easily answered. None of them really mattered.
His fingers pressed lightly into the desk before he stilled them, then, with deliberate ease, he lifted his gaze back to hers.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more measured, but carrying a steady undercurrent of something thoughtful. “What do you expect from me?”
Not the official answer—he already knew that. Follow orders, do the job, integrate into the crew. Those were regulations, not expectations. Expectations came from people, from lived experiences, from understanding. And if he was going to make this work, if he was going to stay, he needed to know exactly where he stood with her.
And more than that—he needed to know what she saw when she looked at him.
"Your best," Blake replied without even a hint of hesitation. The moment of relaxation that had settled on him, however brief, had shown a glimmer of the man underneath all that tension and armour. It was enough to show just how heavy the burden was he was carrying. She hoped they could chip some of it away during his time on the ship. Just a little, just enough to ease that load before it crippled him. "And that is not a trite pleasantry from a teacher. I mean it very, very literally. I don't believe in going 'above and beyond'. It's a nonsense. If you're capable of it, then it's not 'above' or 'beyond'. I expect you to bring everything you have to offer, every shift, no matter what."
Mateo held her gaze for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his deep brown eyes. The weight of what she was saying settled in—not in the way orders did, nor in the way expectations usually wrapped themselves around his throat like a noose. This was different. It wasn’t about earning approval or proving himself worthy. It was about capability. About giving what he already had, without pretense, without performance.
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. “That’s… refreshingly practical,” he admitted, his voice quieter, more introspective now.
A faint vibration thrummed through the deck plating beneath his feet—one of the many near-imperceptible sensations that came with life aboard a starship. Most people probably never noticed, but Mateo always did. The hum of the inertial dampeners, the shift in resonance when power levels fluctuated—it was a reminder that they were never truly still, never truly settled. Just like him.
His lips parted as if he might say something else, but instead, he exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Alright,” he said finally. No sarcasm, no deflection—just acceptance.
He could do that. He would. do that. Because for the first time in a long time, it felt like someone was actually listening—not just to his record, not just to his reputation, but to him.
And maybe, just maybe, that made all the difference.
[OFF]
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
&
Commander Scarlet Blake
Commanding Officer
USS Fenrir
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