First (NOT A) Date, Part 1
Posted on Sun Apr 20th, 2025 @ 3:16am by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Lieutenant JG Riaothren (Ren) ch'Shaorhs
Edited on on Tue Apr 22nd, 2025 @ 2:45am
2,849 words; about a 14 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Holodeck, Deck 9, USS Fenrir
[ON]
The ship was underway and so far, everything was running as smoothly as could be expected. Ren was getting ready to leave to meet with Mateo.
"So, you're going on a date with this guy?" Jairic asked with a grin on his face.
"NO!" It's not a date, I'm just making a friend."
"Then why did you change your outfit three times?"
"Because I'm trying to get things just right. You know I think Jarin may still be alive."na
"I know you're still going through things right now," the teenager said, his smile fading slightly. He caught that his adoptive father had said may instead of know, but he didn't push it. "Just go and enjoy yourself."
Ten minutes later, five before he'd told Mateo to meet him, he was at the entrance to the holodeck dressed in a pair of naval chinos and a burgundy short sleeve polo style shirt.
He spotted Ren before the holodeck doors had even finished opening. Five minutes early. Mateo’s gaze traveled—not lingered, just traveled—taking in the neat tuck of the burgundy polo, the crisp line of the naval chinos. It wasn’t a uniform, but it wasn’t casual either. Intentional. Mateo's brows lifted ever so slightly before he caught himself. He hadn’t expected that. It made him suddenly, acutely aware of the way his own vest knotted at his hip, the raw edge of his ivory turtleneck brushing against the side of his throat. His trousers were high-waisted, black, and sharply pleated, tapering neatly at the ankle above polished charcoal boots with matte buckles—elegant but understated. His nails, a soft sea-glass green with black accent fingers, matched nothing in particular—and therefore everything. His hair had been swept back in loose matte clips, pink streaks tucked behind one ear but already trying to escape.
He resisted the urge to smooth the hem of his sweater again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… slightly misaligned. Noticeable in the way that made his skin prickle, like a whisper he couldn’t unhear. But now wasn’t the time for recalibration. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.
“Hey,” he said, voice even but not disinterested. That slight Argentine lilt gave the word a melodic softness, gentle in its rhythm but no less guarded for it. His stance was neutral: arms relaxed, weight distributed evenly, shoulders loose but alert. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t posture. He just watched, his brown eyes holding steady on Ren’s face, quietly assessing. Ren’s stance wasn’t rigid, but there was a carefulness to it—shoulders set with intent, antennae angling forward, then back again. Nervous energy dressed in structure. Mateo cataloged the shifts without judgment. There was no smile, not at first, but the corners of his mouth were less defended than usual—as if he hadn’t yet decided whether to be amused or cautious. Or maybe both.
He turned slightly, glancing toward the holodeck doors, then back to Ren. “So… did you program existential terror into this thing, or are we just doing awkward cultural misunderstandings and mild eye contact?” It wasn’t a challenge, but it wasn’t nothing. The tone was dry, perfectly balanced between sarcasm and sincerity—classic Mateo. Except there was something else in it too. Not vulnerability, not quite, but a kind of sharpened openness. Like a question being asked beneath the surface. Like he wasn’t sure if he was being invited into something or just orbiting it—but either way, he’d shown up. He didn’t know what Ren expected from this. He didn’t even know what he expected. But the door was open, and for once, Mateo hadn’t walked the other way.
The Andorian turned to fully take in the junior officer, rolling his eyes, purposely making a show of it.
"I designed the program with in mind. So, I left out the terror, existential or otherwise. There will, of course, be a...plethora of opportunities for miscues and miscommunication, but we are unlikely to start an intergalactic war or wind up prisoners of some made merman arch-villain."
"But, I couldn't let you have all the fun, or more accurately, I had to make it interesting for me. After all, I'm the one who slaved for hours and hours. Or at least ninety minutes. So, I created an algorithm that will throw a little randomness into the equation, just to keep things from getting boring."
"You look good by the way."
Mateo blinked at the compliment, caught just slightly off guard. The rest of Ren’s speech had been easy enough to track—eye-rolls and merman arch-villains and ninety-minute labor pains—but that last part landed different. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just said it. Mateo’s lips parted, then closed again. A second passed—maybe two—before he breathed out a quiet, almost amused, “Thanks.”
It was too quiet in the corridor. The kind of quiet that made everything else feel too loud. He looked away, just briefly, under the guise of smoothing the edge of one sleeve where it bunched slightly at his wrist. The motion was deliberate. Calming. He didn’t meet Ren’s eyes again until the pressure behind his ribs had settled. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he added, almost offhand. A truth hidden in misdirection. It wasn’t really about the shirt.
He shifted his weight and angled toward the holodeck doors again, eyes scanning the LCARS panel. “So. A randomized first contact scenario with built-in chaos variables. Bold.” A pause, then a glance back at Ren. “You sure this thing isn’t just an excuse to see me fumble through diplomacy like a drunk raccoon at a peace summit?” The dryness was back, but it didn’t sting. It was playful now—wry, low-stakes, and just vulnerable enough to let Ren know he wasn’t running. Not this time.
"I'm glad you approve of bold, or at least are tolerant of it," the Andorian replied. "I tried not to be too bold, though. I want it to be fun for both of us."
The doors to the holodeck opened, revealing a transporter pad with a red-shirted Ensign at the controls and a man dressed in civilian clothes standing on one of the pads.
"We're just observers for now, for the initial, more formal encounter. But never fear, we'll have something to contribute, or fuck up shortly."
He put a hand on the small of Mateo's back. propelling him forward slightly. "You ready?"
Mateo tensed the moment Ren’s hand made contact—a full-body stillness, not dramatic, but precise. His shoulders drew the slightest inch upward, and his breath caught at the top of his chest like a system error. It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t fear. Just… too much. Too soon. The fabric of his sweater felt tighter where it brushed his skin, like everything was suddenly pressing in a little harder. He didn’t pull away, though. Didn’t say anything. He knew it wasn’t a bad touch—just unexpected. Miscalibrated. That made it easier to endure. Not easy. Just… endurable.
He stepped forward a beat later than he was meant to, shifting his weight with deliberate care. The air felt clearer once he was out of reach, though his hands stayed buried in his trouser pockets like a fail-safe. His fingers curled once inside the fabric, then loosened. He lowered his gaze toward the floor for a breath, the subtle adjustment giving his senses time to resettle. It wasn’t visible to anyone else, not really, but it mattered. Once the weight in his chest leveled out, he glanced sidelong toward Ren again—careful, measured, just short of direct eye contact.
“Define ‘ready,’” he said, voice steady once more, eyes now scanning the simulated transporter room. “Because if we’re talking emotionally? I haven’t been ‘ready’ for anything since, like, age seven.” It was a joke, mostly. But not entirely. A smirk ghosted at the corner of his mouth as he looked past the redshirt and the civilian NPCs. Then, finally, he turned just enough to face Ren—brief eye contact now, deliberate. “But yeah,” he added, quieter. “Let’s do this.”
Ren didn't seem to notice Mateo suddenly tensing up. His touch that had caused it hadn't been meant to cause the other man anxiety. It had barely been a conscious act at all. He did notice the lack of eye contact but chose not to comment on it or the words about emotional readiness.
He stepped up on the transporter pad, one antennae turned toward the pad, the other toward Mateo. "As I said, the first part is easy, we don't have to worry about the giant squid crushing our submarine til at least Chapter Three/"
Once they were both situated, he intoned, "Energize."
A moment later, the two men and their holographic counterparts were standing on a beach looking toward a large open-air structure that looked as though it might have come from a Risan or Terran resort.
The transition was seamless, as always—an instant displacement that left no physical trace, only a faint ripple in his chest where inertia hadn’t caught up with reality. Mateo stepped off the transporter pad and onto fine, sun-warmed sand, and for a moment, he just stood there. The simulated heat brushed against his skin like memory, and the brightness of the light made him blink once, then twice, until the lens of the world came into focus. The scent of saltwater hung just beneath the clean holodeck air, faintly sweet, like warm fruit left in the sun. His boots sank half a centimeter into the sand. Not enough to annoy. Just enough to notice.
The structure ahead was soft and sprawling, all curved white stone and wind-worn timbers, its open archways casting gentle shadows over the pale slate floor. It looked almost like a dreamscape—half Risan resort, half Grecian temple, with just enough irregularity in the wood grain and faded paint to suggest a place that had lived and aged and survived. Mateo’s gaze caught on the subtle glimmer of colored glass tucked into the roof’s mosaic, how the sunlight scattered through it in quiet dashes of turquoise and gold. It didn’t feel like a simulation. It felt like memory. Or maybe longing.
He let out a slow breath, barely audible. “It’s beautiful,” he said simply, his voice lower now, shaped more by thought than intention. He didn’t mean to say it aloud, but he didn’t take it back, either. His eyes lingered on the water beyond the terrace, how the simulated tide curled just shy of the stones. The moment felt strangely still, quiet, but not empty. Like the program was holding its breath, waiting for them to speak first.
The Andorian was displaying a not-so-subtle smile. It could have been a result of Mateo's words, or it might have been an admiration of his skills in holodeck programming, or simply an appreciation of the serene beauty he was witnessing. It was there, though, regardless of the source.
He half turned to say something to one of the other party members, but before words could come out, a figure appeared from deeper inside the marble structure and walked toward them. It was endogenous, so it was difficult to determine its gender, but the height, close to 2 meters, suggested male.
His skin color was a sage green, and he was wearing a white robe.
"Who is the Speaker? came a deep, resonant voice.
"I am the ambassador," the civilian said.
"Come with me, then. All of you. We have prepared a meal for all our guests. I hope you appreciate raw fish," the alien offered.
Mateo didn’t startle, but he did shift his stance, just slightly, the way someone might when stepping from sun into shade. The alien’s presence wasn’t threatening—if anything, it was serene—but the suddenness of it scraped lightly against his edges. The white robe, the precise cadence of the voice, the unnerving symmetry of the face—it was all designed for impact. He watched, eyes steady, absorbing as much detail as he could in the span of a few heartbeats. The green skin tone was almost translucent where the light caught it, like pressed leaves or sea glass. Beautiful, in that unsettling, too-perfect kind of way.
He didn’t say anything when the alien addressed the ambassador. Didn’t need to. It wasn’t their moment yet—just the preamble. Still, his body went into quiet protocol mode, sliding fractionally behind the ambassador without touching him, hands still tucked in his trouser pockets to keep from fidgeting. His fingers curled against the inner seam of the fabric. Not out of anxiety. Just… anchoring. His attention flicked to the mention of food. Raw fish. Of course. Because nothing says interspecies bonding like unfiltered gut flora and social expectations.
He tilted his head toward Ren, expression unreadable save for the faintest arch of one brow. “Well,” he murmured, barely loud enough to carry, “at least they didn’t say live fish.” Then he stepped forward with the others, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, the scientist in him already dissecting ritual from performance, culture from invitation. First contact was rarely about what people said—it was about what they offered, what they withheld, and who they watched when they did.
A smile lifted the corners of the Andorian's mouth before it settled back to a neutral expression. His hands, unlike Mateo's, hung straight down. There was no need to put them into his pocket to keep them still. His antenne, on the other hand, were twitching and turning, helping him to take everything in. They told him the whole setting was artificial, but then he already knew that. He was just choosing to suspend his disbelief.
After ten minutes of walking, they passed out of the building and out onto a verandah filled with long tables filled with figures who were clearly of the same species as the one who had greeted them, though their skin tones were of different earth tone hues.
They were led to a table at the rear of the room that held a variety of raw fish and what looked like might be some kind of eel or sea snake.
"Eat, eat," the greeter exhorted, the night is young. And we have sadat for all of you to drink as well. "
Mateo’s first instinct was to analyze. Not in a panicked way, but with the detached precision of someone trained to catalog living tissue—dissecting a dinner plate without ever lifting a fork. The colors were vibrant: rust red, deep plum, oil-slick silver. Their arrangement bordered on ceremonial. The air carried a briny undertone, threaded with something faintly fermented—like preserved kelp or sun-dried seaweed left just long enough to remember the salt. He didn’t immediately sit. Instead, he hovered near the table, eyes scanning each offering, his posture loose enough to pass as sociable.
He didn’t mind raw fish, in theory. But this wasn’t Earth sashimi. These were species he didn’t recognize—slippery fillets with faint bioluminescence, eel segments curled like sleeping question marks. The sadat, whatever it was, shimmered faintly in its vessels, a mineral pink that reminded him of diluted hemolymph. He inhaled through his nose, slowly, grounding himself in the arrangement of the table—symmetrical, communal, grouped in odd-numbered clusters. Not just sustenance, then. Ritual.
He cast a glance toward Ren, then back at their hosts. The flicker of hesitation on his face was brief—so brief it could be mistaken for calculation. “Thank you,” he said at last, voice low but clear, his hands still resting calmly in his pockets. He didn’t reach for anything. Instead, he shifted slightly behind Ren, watching: how he moved, what he chose, how he held it. The impulse wasn’t deference—it was strategy. A way to read the room before stepping into it. Mateo didn’t need to be first. He just needed to understand the shape of the ritual—what was expected, what was offered, and what silence might say if he held it too long.
Ren was caught off guard momentarily. though he did his best to mask it by keeping, or hoping he was keeping, his face impassive, The meal wasn't planned; it was an anomaly. Just a small one. In and of itself, it was not a major concern. It was just unexpected so early in the program.
"Relax," he spoke up, his words meant for himself as well as Mateo. "Everything is going to be okay."
[OFF - To be continued in Part 2]
Lieutenant JG Riaothren ch'Shaorhs
Assistant Chief Operations Officer
USS Fenrir
&
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
RSS Feed