Small Tables & Heavy Things

Posted on Mon Oct 27th, 2025 @ 8:20am by Lieutenant Tate Sullivan Ph.D.
Edited on on Mon Oct 27th, 2025 @ 8:21am

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Location: The Bean, Deck 10
Timeline: MD 6, 0755 Hours
771 words - 1.5 OF Standard Post Measure

Iozhara sat alone at the corner table, her fingers loosely cupped around a ceramic mug still far too hot to drink. The seat across from her remained empty--by prior arrangement--not by tardiness--and that was its own small relief.

The Bean was still quiet this early, lit by the spill of angled deck lights that which were not quite adjusted to full intensity. A handful of crew filtered in and out--some in uniform, some in the wrinkled aftermath of the night shift. Somewhere behind the counter, a barista with too much energy hummed off-key while restocking tea canisters. Objectively, it was a pleasant place.

But Iozhara didn't feel at all pleasant.

She inhaled slowly and found herself wringing her hands in her lap. No amount of breathing exercises could help the soft, steady dislocation of a self that no longer seemed aligned with the body housing it.

The climbing simulation hadn't helped. Nor had her sketching, which often coaxed her from countless dark clouds before. She had even taken to excessively cleaning the storage drawers found in Sickbay when there weren't Zynari-related injuries requiring care. She had tried to realign herself through routine, as if familiarity alone could bridge the growing sense that something essential had slipped through her fingers while she was too busy triaging someone else's laceration or dislocation.

Her eyes tracked the steam rising from her mug. It made gentle coils in the artificial air, then vanished. She envied it how simple it was, how weightless it seemed.

The slight shift of movement at the entrance pulled her attention, but it wasn't Tate. Just a science officer with an extreme case of bedhead and too much Bajoran spice on his oatmeal. She looked away.

You're fine, she reminded herself.
You're performing your duties. You are not broken. And certainly aren't weak.

But even the reminder felt brittle. Like reciting physiology from a wall chart she'd stopped believing in.

Counseling suites had always felt worse. Manufactured serenity made her skin crawl. Even as a child--sat in too-small chairs, her mother beside her like a spectre. She remembered the taste of false calm. The pressure to heal quietly and cleanly.

This coffee arrangement was something different. Or she hoped it would be.

Lieutenant Sullivan had said yes without hesitation, though Iozhara half-expected her to insist on protocol. That alone had made a difference. She didn't know Tate well--just glimpses during interdepartmental briefings, an occasional passing nod in the corridor--but there was a steadiness there. It was unforced. Iozhara had trusted that instinct.

So now she waited.

Noting her hands still seemed to be wringing themselves on their own, she decided to place them palms-down on the table in front of here--separated by the coffee mug, as if separating two misbehaving children. Beneath the surface and the flow of her respiration mix, she was quietly bracing for impact.

Tate would be embarrassed to admit she hadn’t visited many of the establishments on deck 10, including The Bean. Most of the time, Tate ate replicated food and was equally happy drinking replicated caffeine. Given the mishaps with the replicators lately, however, meeting someone here for an individual chat, seemed as prudent as it was novel.

As soon as she entered, she was immediately surrounded by the comforting scents of coffee and cinnamon. She was also relieved to find the establishment wasn’t overly crowded, even this early, something that wasn’t guaranteed given the crew‘s reliance on non-replicated faire these days.

Spotting Ensign Iozhara was relatively easy, given her teal uniform as well as the breathing apparatus, she supported that was typical of her people. Sullivan approached politely and offered, “Hello and good morning. I’m Tate.”

Iozhara looked up at the sound of her name, her spine straightening. "Lieutenant," she replied, the word emerging with her usual measured cadence. Her voice was low, warm, but quiet enough to keep from spilling into nearby tables. "Thank you... for meeting me here."

She gestured lightly to a seat across from here with an open palm. It wasn't quite an invitation, nor command--a simple acknowledgment that this was the arrangement they had both accepted.

Tate took note, without judgment, of the nurse's formality and sat as directed. She had no psionic abilities but Sullivan didn't need them to sense Iozhara was either a straight to business type of person, or was simply keen to put down her emotional burden in this instance. "You're welcome. It was no trouble at all," she offered simply, giving the other woman space to say more without the obligation of small talk.

OFF