The Morning After
Posted on Sat Jan 3rd, 2026 @ 12:27pm by Ensign Matt Connor
651 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission: Respite
Matt woke up to the distinct realization that gravity was out to kill him. Not metaphorically or philosophically, but literally. His skull throbbed like a warp core with a misaligned injector, and his tongue felt like it had been replaced with sandpaper sometime during the night. The room spun slowly, not violently but instead with a kind of cruel patience like it had all morning to take its time punishing him.
He cracked one eye open which clearly was a bad decision. The lights in his quarters were dimmed, but even that was too bright. He groaned and rolled onto his back. The motion sent a lance of pain right behind his eyes. “Okay,” he muttered hoarsely. “I'm never drinking again.”
It was a promise he had said before and one that he didn’t quite believe even as he made it. He lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling while fragments of the night before filtered in. The bar on the starbase. The bottles of real glass with real alcohol. The memories of Commander Rogers and Ensign Oku and the entire fucking horror that had lead to those two no longer being alive.
His chest tightened and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Dammit,” he muttered. Even hungover, the ache didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened because now he didn’t have the blur, just the guilt.
Eventually, he forced himself upright, bracing one hand on the edge of the mattress while the room caught up with him. His head pulsed in angry protest. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly until his stomach stopped threatening mutiny before he stood and made the slow, miserable trek to the replicator.
“Water,” he croaked. The computer, unbothered by pain, grief, or personal mistakes, chirped brightly as a glass materialized. He took it with both hands and swallowed half of it in one go.
His reflection caught his eye in the wall mirror and he grimaced. Dark circles under his eyes that would make a raccoon jealous, his hair a disaster, uniform undershirt rumpled enough to tell a story no one needed to read.
"Yeah, real professional," he muttered.
He leaned his palms against the wall and bowed his head as images from the night trickled back. Eric Banner half laughing and half crying during the long walk through the corridor. The quiet moment at the junction where they split to separate quarters.
Matt swallowed, wondering if he should check on Banner. His computer monitor chirped softly from the workstation desk with a notification alert. He knew it was a duty schedule update. He stumbled over and sat down, only to end up staring at the screen for a long second. He really didn’t have to check to know what it most likely said. The senior officer on night duty had probably logged the incident already, and starbase security cameras didn’t miss much, especially two officers stumbling aboard at three in the morning. There would be questions, maybe paperwork, and definitely a meeting with someone higher ranked than he wanted to talk to while feeling like his brain was melting.
He sighed. “Yeah. Guess I earned that one,” he muttered.
Still, beneath the headache, the embarrassment, and the gnawing regret there was something else, something quieter. He and Banner had walked back together. They hadn’t pretended everything was fine, they hadn’t buried it and they hadn’t tried to stand taller than the grief. They had just let it exist, and for the first time since Adelphous Matt didn’t feel like he was carrying the weight alone.
He finished the water, stumbled back to the replicator and ordered another. Every swallow of water hurt less than the last. He finally straightened slowly, stretching stiff muscles, wincing through the lingering throb behind his eyes. It was time to face the day and whatever came next.
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