Vulcan herb or Federation-approved veggie?
Posted on Fri Nov 7th, 2025 @ 3:59pm by Tristi Richardson & Selari Vonn
Mission:
Season 6: Episode 6: Conglomerate
Location: Aboretum Deck
Timeline: MD2 Late Night
642 words - 1.3 OF Standard Post Measure
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The ship was quieter now. Not peaceful — never that — but quieter. Emergency repairs had dulled to background hums, the wounded were stable, and the dead had been named. Only the faint thrum of the warp core echoed through the decks like a heartbeat reminding them all they were still alive.
Tristi sat cross-legged near one of the hydroponic plots, a half-repaired grow-light panel beside her. Dirt streaked her fingers; her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. She hadn’t gone back to her quarters much since the attack — the arboretum felt safer, alive, and less haunted by what she’d seen in the corridors.
A soft sound broke the stillness: the whisper of sliding doors.
Selari stepped in, barefoot, a data-padd clutched loosely at her side. The Vulcan-Bajoran girl paused at the threshold, her grey-green eyes scanning the dim lights and the scattered soil before finally resting on Tristi.
“You are… still awake,” Selari said quietly. Her voice held its usual calm cadence, though the edges trembled just slightly — fatigue, or maybe the aftershock of fear.
Tristi looked up from the grow-light. “Couldn’t sleep. Plants don’t scream when the lights flicker.”
It wasn’t meant to sound dark, but the words hung heavy between them anyway.
Selari crossed the floor, her bare feet making almost no sound on the decking. She crouched opposite Tristi, studying the soil bed. “The terran sage survived the breach. I thought it would die. It… adapted.”
Tristi gave a faint snort. “Figures. Everything that’s supposed to die around here just refuses to.” She fiddled with a spanner, tightening a small bolt. “Guess that includes us.”
Selari tilted her head. “Survival is not refusal. It is… choice, perhaps.” Her gaze drifted to the bio luminescent vines overhead, their soft blue light spilling over her face. “I did not choose to live through that attack. Yet I did. You did. The plants did.”
A pause. “Perhaps that means something.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The ship’s hum filled the silence.
Then Tristi reached for a small container of seedlings and brushed her thumb over a sprout. “You talk like the old botanist I used to know. He said plants remember things. Not like people do, but they still… feel it.”
Selari’s expression softened. “My father said the same.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her voice faltered. “He would have liked this place.”
Tristi glanced up, catching the crack in Selari’s composure — that tiny fracture only another broken person could spot.
“Yeah. My kinda luck too,” Tristi murmured. “The people who teach us how to breathe never seem to stick around.”
The two sat in silence again, grief shared but unspoken.
Finally, Tristi shifted, clearing her throat. “Hey, you ever… want to plant something new in here? Something that’s yours? Not just another Vulcan herb or Federation-approved veggie?”
Selari blinked, genuinely startled by the question. “I have not considered it.”
Tristi shrugged. “You should. The soil doesn’t care what side of your face your nose ridges are on.” A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Neither do I.”
For the first time, Selari smiled — small, uncertain, but real. “Then perhaps… we should plant something together.”
Tristi grinned, handing her a trowel. “Deal. But I’m warning you now — if you start naming your plants after dead philosophers, I’m stealing them.”
Selari looked down at the trowel, then back up at her. “Agreed.”
A quiet beat. “Though logic would suggest you will steal them anyway.”
Tristi snorted. “You’re learning.”
The ship’s lights dimmed another shade toward night mode. Around them, the soft hum of the arboretum continued — a fragile, living heartbeat in the wounded ship. Two girls, bound by loss but still breathing, still growing, working in shared silence among the green.
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