Starlight, Part 1
Posted on Sat Feb 15th, 2025 @ 11:46pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Petty Officer 3rd Class Constantin Vansen
1,538 words; about a 8 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Valhalla Bar, USS Fenrir
Timeline: Day 10
[ON]
Constantin Vansen was watching the stars. And the people. Truth was, it was crowded right now in the bar, something which he found interesting. Fascinating actually. So many different new people to see, so many new faces to learn. He had found an empty table by chance. Others were full, people either from the same department or already friends. Some he even suspected were from the starbase rather than the ship. Most were in civilian clothing, something he didn't have the habit for. No, he was in the Starfleet issue jumpsuit, sleeves rolled up since he had come off a shift. And the good thing about being Operations was that he could just hide away most of the time.
He looked down at his plate, having decided to eat here. He had tried the drinks, not really understanding them. So now it was the food, since for him it was a little early. He wasn't sure what this was, a sandwich with...something. It tasted good though, he just wasn't hungry. Running too much on the new inputs he got from the place. He tried to figure out why he felt like this and decided it was simple.
It was a new ship, a new crew and a new situation. And until he found people he could call friends, he would feel like he was drifting, unanchored. It would go away.
It always did.
The moment Mateo stepped into Valhalla, he regretted it.
The bar was packed, the air thick with the overlapping hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the din. A low bassline thrummed beneath it all, pulsing through the floor like a heartbeat, an insistent reminder that this was no quiet retreat. The warm glow of the overhead lighting did little to soften the press of bodies. People leaned into each other, casual touches and familiar gestures exchanged with effortless ease—a language Mateo had never quite learned to speak.
He inhaled slowly, forcing air past the tightness in his chest, drawing in the sharp tang of alcohol, the lingering scent of grilled something, and the unmistakable bite of artificial citrus from some neon-colored cocktail making its rounds. Too many bodies. Too much movement. His skin itched with the awareness of how little space he had to himself.
The whole place was alive, buzzing with the easy camaraderie of a crew still settling into their rhythms, finding their people, staking their claims. And Mateo? He just wanted to eat his damn food and get out.
His fingers curled at his sides, the phantom weight of a PADD still in his hand despite leaving it in his lab. He’d spent the entire day cataloging misdelivered shipments, reorganizing the medical science lab on Deck 7 after some absolute fucking maniac decided to store microbial sample vials in the wrong temperature unit. The sheer stupidity of it all still had his eye twitching.
By the time he realized he hadn’t eaten a single thing since morning, the mess hall had been a war zone of late-shifters and overcaffeinated engineers, forcing him to make a reluctant detour to Valhalla. It wasn’t his first choice—not by a long shot—but it was close, and right now, his stomach was borderline mutinying against him.
Unfortunately, so was the seating situation.
Mateo exhaled through his nose, scanning the bar with the sharp efficiency of a man who did not have the patience for this bullshit. Every table was occupied—clusters of officers and enlisted alike, some in uniform, some in civvies, most of them locked in conversation or already staking their claim over the remaining seats.
Except for one.
At a table near a viewport, where the dark stretch of space folded around them like a silent observer, a single figure sat alone.
Tall. Lean. Sleeves rolled up.
Mateo barely glanced at his face before his mind caught, stuttered, and promptly short-circuited.
Oh. Well. Fuck.
The guy was—there wasn’t a way to sugarcoat this—annoyingly, unfairly handsome. The kind of rugged, lived-in attractiveness that suggested he either never struggled with social interaction a day in his life or, at the very least, could get away with brooding in a corner and still have people gravitate toward him. Sharp angles. Strong jaw. Blue eyes that probably had no business being that fucking piercing.
His stomach twisted—not in any way he wanted to analyze.
His stomach growled, breaking whatever spiral he was about to launch himself into, and he scrubbed a hand over his face, exasperated with himself already.
Did he want to do this? Absolutely not.
Was it better than standing in the middle of the bar like some socially maladjusted weirdo? Unfortunately, yes.
Mateo adjusted the tray in his hands, its weight a reassuring anchor amid the chaos of Valhalla’s crowded bar. At its center, a plate of bondiola sat steaming, the pork slow-cooked to tenderness, its surface glistening beneath the dim lighting. A side of chimichurri added a sharp, herby vibrance, while golden-roasted potatoes and caramelized onions nestled beside the dish, their rich aroma cutting through the heavier scents of alcohol and overheated bodies. To the side, a small plate of alfajores tempted with their delicate shortbread shells, dulce de leche peeking from between the layers, a dusting of powdered sugar settling like a whisper of indulgence. His drink—dark, fizzy, and likely some spiced cola substitute that wouldn’t offend his taste buds too much—sat neatly alongside a folded cloth napkin and polished cutlery, a subtle contrast to the bar’s lively disorder. If nothing else, Mateo took comfort in a little structure, even when everything else felt like a mess.
He had ordered at the bar, where one of Valhalla’s bartenders had directed him to a small console built into the counter—an interface where he could input selections from a rotating menu tailored to Valhalla’s kitchen. No replicators here, at least not for the bar’s signature meals. That, at least, earned his respect. When his order was ready, one of the civilian staff slid the tray over without so much as a word, moving on to the next hungry crewmember. Efficient. Simple. The way it should be.
Now, with no free tables in sight, he lingered for a second longer, scanning the room as if an alternative might magically appear. It didn’t. Jaw tightening, he exhaled sharply through his nose, adjusted his tray, and made his way toward the stranger’s table, already bracing for the interaction.
Vansen looked up as he spotted movement coming towards him. What he saw was a man, looking younger than himself, carrying a tray and looking pretty much as if he was stepping of of an airlock. He supposed maybe he was. Without really thinking, he slid his foot under the table so it went to the leg of the chair and he used it to push it out, creating a space for the man to sit down...a silent offer for him to sit. So he didn't even have to ask, Vansen welcomed it.
The stranger was his own height as far as he could tell. A few centimetres one way or another. Dark, no, black hair almost artistically crafted. He had brown eyes too and skin that seemed like it had been bathed in sun. Okay, so he was beautiful. And somehow, he managed to look better with stubble than Vansen did, at least in his own eyes. He also had...what was it again? Piercings. He hadn't seen them before away from the holodeck. And there was ink too, carefully, artfully becoming part of his face, his skin.
Not sure if he looks uncomfortable, or if...he just has a resting face that seems a bit distant.
Deciding that he'd act as if the other man was nervous, Vansen gave the stranger a smile, and a nod, before he reached for his own drink to sip. "I can offer you one of the nicest views of the bar, and you can pick from awkward silence, awkward conversation or general chitchat," he said, keeping the smile on his face as his blue eyes met Mateo's.
Mateo eyed the chair like it might have a catch.
For a second, he considered walking away on principle, just to be difficult—but the chair was already there, nudged outward in an unspoken invitation, eliminating the one social hurdle he’d been bracing himself for. No expectation, no pretense, just a space offered without ceremony.
It was… nice.
Not the kind of thing he’d say out loud, obviously, but still—nice.
He shifted his tray in his hands, exhaled slowly through his nose, and took the seat, his movements controlled, deliberate, too practiced to be fully at ease. He set his tray down first, aligning it neatly, an unconscious need for precision amidst all the casual chaos around him. Then, finally, he let himself sit.
[OFF - To be continued in Part 2]
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
&
Petty Officer Constantin Vansen
Operations Officer
USS Fenrir
[PNPC - Hanlon]
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