Control, nothing but

Posted on Thu Apr 24th, 2025 @ 5:50pm by Avalon [ADMIN NPC] & Cadet Junior Grade Clary Henderson

Mission: Season 6: Echoes of the Zynari
Location: –Starfleet Academy Annex
Timeline: MD2, mid morning
772 words - 1.5 OF Standard Post Measure

Clary Henderson adjusted her uniform with practiced ease, her fingers brushing away a stray hair from her shoulder. The pale blue of the science division suited her—clean, precise, sharp. Just like her.

She paused at the wall panel near the third-year commons and caught her reflection. Still flawless. Still composed. Still in control.

Three years in, and she was already mentoring second-years and getting research invites from officers who’d published in Astrophysical Phenomena and Applied Xenoscience. Her name was climbing—on merit, not bloodlines, not charity cases, not pity. Unlike some.

Her boots clicked rhythmically on the floor as she headed toward the third-year common room, but her path conveniently took her past the cadet cabins assigned to the incoming class. She was just checking in, of course. Seeing how the “next generation” was settling in. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fresh wound on her pride named Triston Montgomery. Or the Erisian brat who practically stalked around like royalty.

Her lips curled into a slow smirk as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. There they were. Perfect.

Clary had spotted them before they saw her—Miran Lalor and that redheaded shadow of hers, Raye Crosby-Triannth. Freshman cadets. Barely out of their teens, starry-eyed, full of ideals, and yet somehow already in the middle of everything.

Nepotism, Clary thought bitterly. That was the only way Lalor got in. A diplomatic name, a tragic backstory, and a face that probably sold well on Erisian holovids. And now she strutted around like she belonged here—like she’d earned it.

Clary didn’t stop walking. No, she slowed—just enough to make sure they saw her. Just enough to smile, all teeth and venom
.
“Well, if it isn’t the royal brat and her tagalong,” she purred, arms crossing like a shield. Her tone was smooth, bored. As if their mere existence inconvenienced her. “Didn’t realize the Academy was letting in charity cases and time-lost aliens now. Must be a new diversity push.”
She caught the flash of anger in Miran’s eyes. Good. It meant the words hit home.

Clary stepped closer. Her voice dipped just low enough to stay on the safe side of a violation, just loud enough to sting. “I heard your little science boyfriend is already sniffing around someone else. Not much to do when the goods are locked away, huh?”

Raye stepped between them like a bodyguard, which Clary found almost adorable. She tilted her head, mock-sweet. “Know your place,” she said, and let the words drip with seniority.
Raye’s comeback was sharper than expected—something about being beneath Clary—and it scraped at her pride. But Clary didn’t show it. No. She never showed it.

She turned on her heel, throwing one last glance over her shoulder. “Some of us earned our positions,” she called out, voice like a slap. “Others were dragged in on nepotism and sob stories.”

She kept walking after that, heart thudding harder than she liked to admit. She didn’t slow down until the corner swallowed her from their sight. Only then did her hand tighten into a fist.
They didn’t know anything.

Not about how hard she worked to get here. How many hours she spent perfecting every test, every simulation. Not about her family back home, who barely acknowledged her unless she sent home honors. Not about the pressure that came from being just a Henderson—no fancy bloodline, no sob story, no tragedy to gain sympathy points.

It was exhausting, always being the villain in someone else's narrative. But she had no patience for weaklings who wore their trauma like armor and expected the world to hand them medals. She had earned her place here. Through scores, through logic, through hard bloody work.
And then there was Triston. Sweet, stupid Triston. Still looking at Miran like she was some kind of broken-winged bird to save. He’d never understood. He never would.

Clary opened her PADD and flicked through her upcoming lab assignments. Better to focus on real things. Tangible things.

But when she returned to her cabin that evening, something was off.

She paused. Tilted her head.

There, draped across her door, was a rug. Soaked in red. It wasn’t blood—Clary knew the consistency. It was colored fluid. A message. A threat.

An imitation.

Clary stared at it, a slow, delighted smile creeping across her face.

“Oh, Miran,” she whispered, kneeling to touch the edge. “You wouldn’t dare.”

But maybe she would.

And if so?

Clary was more than ready to play.

TBC...