"The Art of Not Drawing Blood"

Posted on Thu Apr 24th, 2025 @ 2:32pm by Cadet Freshman Grade Miran Lalor [Lalor] HRH & Cadet Freshman Grade Raye Crosby-Triannth

Mission: Season 6: Echoes of the Zynari
Location: Deck 19, Cadet Annex
Timeline: MD2, mid morning
545 words - 1.1 OF Standard Post Measure

The corridor buzzed with the hum of energy conduits and the sound of boots on polished floors. Miran Lalor shifted the duffel bag on her shoulder, her golden eyes scanning the door panel for their new shared quarters. Raye Crosby-Triannth walked beside her, calm but observant, her red braid bouncing with each step.

Miran’s fingers tapped the door access. “Cabin 28 -K-O. Home sweet pressure-sealed home.”

“Could use some vines and a pet tribble,” Raye quipped, offering a small grin as the door whooshed open.

But they didn't step inside. Because rounding the corner—hips swaying with intent, hair too perfect to be natural, and a smirk that could curdle milk—came Clary Henderson.

“Well, if it isn’t the royal brat and her tagalong,” Clary sneered, crossing her arms. Her Starfleet cadet uniform was crisp, her tone anything but.

Raye sighed almost inaudibly. Here we go.

Miran’s shoulders tensed. Her voice was cool, polite. Dangerous. “Clary.”

“Oh—Cadet Freshman Grade Miran Lalor” Clary cooed mockingly. “How quaint. Didn’t realize the Academy was letting in charity cases and disowned aliens now. Must be a new diversity push.”

Miran didn’t flinch, but her fingers curled slightly, knuckles white. “Careful, Clary. You’re confusing your lack of character for superiority again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Clary said with a mock gasp. “I forgot I’m talking to the walking soap opera. I heard your little science boyfriend is already sniffing around someone else. Can’t say I blame him. Not much to do when the goods are locked away, huh?”

Raye stepped between them like a firebreak, palms out. “Okay, that’s enough. You’ve had your fun, Clary. Move along before you embarrass yourself further.”

Clary rolled her eyes. “I’m a third year. You’re barely out of orientation. Know your place.”

“I do,” Raye said calmly. “It’s just not beneath you.”

Clary scoffed, but her smirk faltered. “Whatever. Just remember: some of us earned our positions. Others were dragged in on nepotism and sob stories.”

She turned and strode off with a hair flip worthy of a Ferengi holo-drama.

"Slut" Raye muttered and turned to Miran to get about calming the Erisian down.

Miran exhaled through her nose, every muscle taut. “She keeps pushing.”

“I know,” Raye said quietly. “But that’s what she wants. You fight her, you give her power. She’s the kind of person who self-destructs just fine on her own.”

Miran’s jaw clenched. “She dishonored Tristi. Betrayed Triston. She mocks our House.”

“I know,” Raye said again, placing a hand on Miran’s arm. “But blood feuds start with daggers. Not words. And you’re not eighteen yet. One wrong move and you risk everything you’ve worked for.”

Miran’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “She wouldn’t be worth the blood on my doorstep.”

“That’s the spirit,” Raye murmured, a hint of mischief in her voice. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone left a blood-soaked rug at her door anyway.”

Miran cracked the faintest of smiles. “Hypothetically.”

“Purely,” Raye replied, and stepped into the cabin. “Now come on. Let’s unpack before you go full Erisian princess on her.”

Miran nodded and they began to unpack.