Welcome to the Wolfpack - Part 3/4

Posted on Fri Jul 4th, 2025 @ 1:13am by Commander Scarlet Blake & Crewman Mateo Gardel & Petty Officer 3rd Class Helliun Inant

2,126 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: To Boldly Go
Location: Messhall, Deck 4, USS Fenrir
Timeline: MD 13 - 2030

ON:

Hel smiled as she entered, dressed in clothes she felt more at home in. It was mostly brows and whites, tight trousers with sandals and a loose flowing tunic with a hood. Her hair was free and she smiled when she saw Mateo. She reached for two drinks and walked over, offering a glass to him. "Drink this, it will make it more fun," she said as she met his eyes, her yellow ones warm. "It is a celebration. A feast in its own way."

Mateo didn’t see her until she was already moving toward him, the soft earth tones of her tunic cutting gently through the noise and color of the room. He registered the hood, the loose lines of fabric, the bare feet in sandals—unusual, unfazed, unmistakably Hel. His posture softened a fraction, a subtle drop in his shoulders like tension bleeding off muscle. He didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t brace, either.

When she handed him the drink, his fingers wrapped around the glass without hesitation, grateful for something to do with his hands. He met her eyes—yellow, calm, curious—and for once, he didn’t look away. “Thanks,” he said, voice low, already lifting the glass. He downed it in one practiced swallow, not bothering to ask what it was. Whatever it tasted like, it was cold and sharp, and it left a burn in the back of his throat that made his lips twitch. “You didn’t spike it with Axan pheromones, did you?” he asked dryly, a glint of humor barely visible beneath the sarcasm.

He didn’t expect an answer. He just needed to say something. The words gave him ground to stand on.

Hel laughed at that, the sound rippling through the space they occupied as she shook her head. "We don't have pheromones like that," she said, playfully, leaning closer. "Because we're hunters...we just take what we want," she winked to show she was teasing, her eyes warm and the smile pulling at the scar on her face. "And that includes claiming the fun and spirit of a celebration even when others feel out of place. Besides...apart from my team and Ember, there's not many I know yet. You, however, I know and claim as my friend. And friends do not let other friends stand in a room without a drink, this I know to b true by the Ancient Sands."

Mateo huffed out a laugh—barely more than breath, but real. It caught somewhere between his throat and chest, like his body didn’t quite know what to do with the warmth curling up behind it. “You’re dangerous,” he said, not unkindly, his eyes flicking over her expression before dropping to the now-empty glass in his hand. His voice softened at the edges. “You say shit like that and people might start to believe you.” He looked up again, gaze steady now, the sarcasm retreating into something quieter. “But thanks. For the drink. And for... not letting me stand here like an awkward statue. Or, well—more of one.”

He tilted the glass, inspecting the last drop as if it might reveal a secret. Then his eyes swept the room—the music, the movement, the slow chaos of mingling bodies and too many conversations happening at once. Someone was already dancing too close to the food table. Someone else was making an impassioned argument about warp cores and metaphysical philosophy. His mouth curved into a dry line. “I’m gonna need at least two more of whatever that was if I’m going to survive the next hour,” he muttered, lifting the glass like a tiny white flag.

Then, after a beat—quieter, almost like the words escaped before he could overthink them—he added, “Also… you look good.” His gaze flicked over her again, more deliberate this time. “The hood thing works. Like you’re here for enlightenment or to steal a starship.” A pause. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Either way—solid vibe.”

Hel smiled warmly, wriggling her toes just for a chance to feel them. "Either can happen. I've not yet turned to shipstealing, but I feel I'd be a natural," she said and motioned one of the people carrying trays of drinks over before putting her empty glass down and picking up another. "I will stay close to you, my little Sandstorm," she said, the universal translator taking a direct translation of the word yet not the sentiment behind it. Which was gentle, fond, yet acknowledging he did not truly need any protection.

He blinked at the nickname, brow twitching with something halfway between confusion and suspicion. "Sandstorm?" he echoed, the word strange in his mouth, like it wasn’t meant for him. He turned the new drink in his hand, letting the condensation trace a slow circle against his palm before lifting his eyes back to her. “You know sandstorms are destructive, right?” he asked, arching a brow. “Unpredictable. Hard to track. Kind of a nightmare to deal with.”

But there was no bite in his voice. If anything, it sounded like curiosity wrapped in dry humor, a question disguised as a warning. And then—because he couldn’t not—he added, “I mean... you’re not wrong.” He looked away, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward, almost involuntarily. “Just don’t put that on a cupcake.”

For a moment, he let himself just be—standing beside her, not needing to talk, not needing to bolt. The noise of the party receded slightly, not because it changed, but because she was there. He glanced sideways at her—sandals, hood, scarred smile, eyes like sun-warmed honey—and thought, not for the first time, that if he was the sandstorm, then Hel was the desert night. Quiet. Vast. Unbothered. The kind of stillness you didn’t know you needed until you were already standing in it.

And he was comfortable in it. More than comfortable—he liked it.

"Sandstorms also bring out the best in people," Hel said, considering what he had said, smiling as she sipped her drink. "Although no one will ever admit that when the razor rain starts. "I am amazed there's food here. And that us enlisted are enjoying the spoils too, I usually expect these things to be officers only. So...I thought I'd take advantage."

Mateo exhaled slowly through his nose, glancing down at the drink in his hand like it was somehow complicit in this whole ordeal. "Strong encouragement," he muttered aloud, his voice low and edged with dry amusement. "Translation: ‘Show up or expect creative consequences.’" He tipped the glass slightly toward Hel, a silent salute to the absurdity of it all, before shifting his weight against the support beam, the cold seep of metal at his back oddly grounding. His thumb traced a slow, restless arc around the rim of the glass, a fidget he barely registered. He hadn’t come here willingly—wouldn’t pretend otherwise—but for now, he could at least pretend he wasn't counting down the minutes.

The party moved on without him, a swirling mess of clumsy conversations and forced laughter. Mateo watched it all with detached precision—the buffet line too heavily trafficked on the right, the inevitable dance of officers circling each other like wary predators. He caught the edge of Hel's body language—how she stood a little lighter, toes brushing the floor, choosing to belong even when it wasn't freely given. It wasn't something he would have thought to do, not naturally. But watching her claim the space without apology sparked a flicker of reluctant respect low in his chest, stubborn and unfamiliar. Maybe you had to take what you could get, especially when the storm always found you eventually.

He took another sip from his drink, savoring the cold, bracing bite. "Could be worse," he said under his breath, glancing sideways at her, voice low but audible. "Could’ve been an awards ceremony. Or mandatory group meditation." His lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smirk. After a beat, quieter but still spoken aloud, he added, "At least there's you. Makes the whole 'pretend to be a functioning social organism' thing suck less."

"Oh, I don't know. A community can be rewarding," Hel said as she looked at him, a smile coming to her that softened her features briefly, before it took a dangerous edge. "The sniping, the infighting, the occasional disappearance...it has its perks. Perhaps not so much in the Federation where replicators are abundant, but where I am from...I never had to cook a meal thanks to the community."

Mateo tilted his head, frowning slightly like he was trying to solve a problem no one else saw. "Okay, but—what if somebody makes something you can’t stomach?" he asked, his eyebrows lifting in genuine confusion. "Do you just... choke it down to be polite? Or is there some kind of, I don’t know, community veto?" He shifted against the beam, the rim of his glass tapping lightly against his palm in an unconscious beat. "And you all eat together? Like one big family dinner?" The word family caught awkwardly in his mouth, tightening something in his chest before he shoved past it with a rough little breath. "Sounds like a fast track to passive-aggressive warfare if you ask me."

"A bad cook hears about their cooking, a good one gets gifts," Hel said as if that was logical, before she shrugged. "We don't have as refined palates as humans. The sand saw to that. It's why I like spicy things, I can taste that better."

Mateo laughed—really laughed—and the sound slipped out before he could stop it, warm and unguarded, rare enough to feel like a small miracle. It wasn’t sharp or defensive, just real, the kind of laugh that surprised even him. He blinked once, shaking his head like he needed to reset something, the faintest smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. "That’s... honestly fair," he said, glancing her way. "Gift economy based on spice tolerance. I can respect that." His posture eased, shoulders settling like he’d let go of something he hadn’t noticed he was holding. "I like heat too," he added, turning his glass slowly between his fingers. "Not just the fire—the vinegar hit. That sharp, tangy burn right behind your eyes. Hurts a little... and I don’t know. I like that."

He hesitated, then added, quieter now, "I think you’d like the food where I’m from—Buenos Aires." A beat. "Argentina." His gaze flicked sideways, as if testing how much of himself he was really willing to share. "It’s bold. Messy. Passionate. Everything hits you at once." He didn’t say the last part aloud, but it settled in the quiet space between them all the same: like you’d fit right in.

Hel's grin widened as she leant a little closer to him. "Do you think they'd welcome someone like me to their tables?" she asked, her voice almost purring. She was teasing him. She believed him that she would be welcomed and enjoy the hospitality. But she couldn't help herself to tease in a friendly and playful manner, to show off her traits that seemed more animalistic for humans. She wasn't mocking, in fact she liked that he could see her in his world, where he came from. And the food did sound delicious. "Wouldn't they be afraid I'd eat their pets...or their metal ornaments."

Mateo’s brows lifted, eyes narrowing slightly—not in judgment, but as if bracing against the heat creeping up the back of his neck. "Only the small dogs," he said dryly, but the smirk pulling at his mouth gave him away. "And maybe one or two of the lawn gnomes. No great loss." He didn’t move when she leaned in; didn’t lean closer either—but something in him went still, like a thread of tension had rewound instead of snapped. "They’d welcome you," he added after a beat, voice lower now, the sarcasm softening at the edges. "You’d scare the hell out of a few of them... but they’d feed you anyway." He didn’t quite meet her eyes when he said it, but the warmth in his voice said enough.

TBC:


Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir

PO3 Helliun Inant
Engineering
USS Fenrir
(PNPC - Hanlon)

 

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