Pressure Valve

Posted on Tue Feb 3rd, 2026 @ 10:49am by Lieutenant JG Edward Mitchell & Ensign Ezmyrae Varin

Mission: Aeon's End
Location: Deck 12
Timeline: MD-03
2257 words - 4.5 OF Standard Post Measure

It had been a day of slowly escalating frustration.

Though there was definitely something to be said for being too busy to fixate on the demands of heightened sensitivity, there was no real way to avoid the culmination of stress and anxiety that twisted itself in knots and slowly expanded until it sat heavy in the stomach and tight across the chest. Myra hadn't protested when she'd been assigned to roving duties, most of the medical staff and anyone with sufficient enough skill to be reallocated had been deployed to tend to casualties where they occurred. Triage under duress was unavoidable, Sickbay couldn't house everyone that needed patching up, but whilst traipsing over the ship was an entirely justifiable assignment, it removed any potential for isolation to provide some reprieve. Every corridor was just another testament to the ship's current struggles and no amount of therapy and preparation had really equipped the Trill with the ability to process the way certain specific stimuli brought back bad memories. The stench of fried circuitry, as it turned out, was a significant trigger. The static of unstable communication channels was another. Strobing red lights had spooked her several times already.

She'd been irritable all day as a result.

And, when she hadn't been terse, she'd been silent. The situation perhaps wasn't aided by their poor introduction, but when Ames had paired Myra with Mitchell, it had probably not been out of any malicious intent to subject either of them to botched professionalism. The young doctor drew no comfort from the gnawing guilt of self-awareness, and the understanding that she was being unfair and unreasonable, but the alternative was trying to explain why she was struggling with occasional bouts of vertigo or why she'd avoided eating all day because she wasn't convinced she'd be able to keep anything down. The last thing she wanted to do was divulge the origins of her anxiety when the whole crew was dealing with more than enough to foster their own.

It was the fifth turbolift ride in the past hour that had passed without conversation.

"You know what really gets me wondering?"

The question apparently came out of the blue; Eddie's tone speaking as if mid-conversation when it was more likely mid-thought. As if he had been pondering something for about twenty minutes. Which, internally, he had. Not that his mind wandered, but the fact that Myra seemed less intent on talking about things meant that he was having an internal monologue. It had started with him trying to decide how to start a conversation and unpick her mood. But then his brain had tangented a few times. Like a labyrinth, he had stumbled on something that actually made it out of his mouth.

"Why more alien races we've encountered don't sound more like animals. You ever wondered that? On Earth you have dogs, cats, cows, sheep...they all sound really different. But whether it's humanoids or incorporeal-whatsits...they just sound normal." He put the question into the air, then looked at her. "What do you think?"

As had been the case all day, the invasion of conversation had triggered a visible tension in Myra's stance. This time, there was a slight hesitation, as if the instinct had been interrupted by a rational mind's attempt to intercept. Confusion lingered, her brow creased with the effort of trying to figure out what piece of information she'd missed that would explain this. It at least earned the nurse a moment of undivided attention, which was progress of sorts.

"What do I think about the lack of alien cows?" Once again, her features struggled to decide on an expression that conveyed her reaction adequately. Then, because natural inquisitiveness was difficult to quell even in the midst of confusion and angst, the Trill took a small bite. "I think your intial logic is flawed, for a start."

"Probably, but then again, I ain't no Vulcan..." Eddie sighed, ducking under a slightly misshapen piece of bulkhead jutting out from the ceiling of the corridor. "I'm just saying. Starfleet has never encountered cow-people. I mean, an argument could be made for Caitans and cats, for sure. But you'd have a hard time filling out a farm..."

The young doctor's face lingered over its perplexed confusion, which didn't exactly rid it of its permanent scowl but at least provided a focal point that removed some of the sullenness. "What would constitute a 'cow-person'? They are mammals, of which there are plenty, and ungulates would find it difficult to develop warp-capabilities." Myra raised her eyebrows. "How do you build anything when you can't pick things up?"

"Hm," Eddie nodded sagely. "That would make it pretty hard to become warp-capable. Which, I suppose, explains why we haven't met any of them yet." He grinned. "Hey, you figured it out, Ensign. Nice job." A beat later, he chuckled at the ridiculousness of it and gave her another genuine pat on the shoulder. "So. Now that the important questions are answered, how'd you get stuck with me?"

There was something vaguely mistrustful about the Trill's hesitation this time. Ever since he'd chewed her out the last time, Myra had failed to form any consistent opinion on Edward Mitchell outside a vague suspicion that he harboured a tenacity for condescension. At the very least, he was clearly acting with intent and solving puzzles wasn't high on the priority list at the moment. "Aren't you the one in charge of rostering?" A hitched eyebrow drove home its own point.

"I am but a humble nurse," Eddie replied with a somewhat theatrical flair and casual grin. "There are any number of personnel above me that do all that 'telling people where to go'. I just help patch up those who need patching up." The simple evasion mixed with his good-natured humour led into another follow-up. "Besides, you didn't answer the question. You've been down in the dumps since you got on shift."

In some respects, confusion was an improvement on frustration. It was an upwards trajectory, at least, though Myra was reluctant to lean too much into piqued curiosity. "That's probably because you didn't ask that question," she pointed out, and promptly arrived at an uncomfortable realisation that the explanation wasn't something she wanted to broach. Returning her gaze to the doors in front of her, the young doctor took just a little too long to add, "I don't think anyone's in the mood for celebrating right now."

"Yeah. Bit of a situation we find ourselves in, huh?" he nodded safely. "But, that's everyone else. Why are you so down in the dumps, hmm?"

"Well, that was an attempt to point out that my reasons aren't particularly unique."

The pointed side-eye was, in some respects, a lot milder than some of the looks she'd shot him so far today. It didn't last long before Myra was back to staring at the closed doors, and for a minute, it seemed like that was all the response Mitchell was going to get.

"It's a little more challenging than a simulation."

Because, of course, this was her first assignment since graduating and though she had been through rigorous testing, much like any other cadet, with a sprinkling of her own additional requirements to prove herself significantly recovered to handle the pressure, the information that had unfolded over the course of the day was not exactly a prime example of what could normally be expected.

"True enough. Nobody prepares you for these deep-space shenanigans when they go down. Starfleet's book of weird and wonderful space adventures just seems to grow all the time." Eddie tapped his chin thoughtfully, wondering in his own mind if this would make the latest fleet gossip. If they survived. "But - something tells me it's not just the doom-and-gloom of the situation we're in that's really bothering you."

Exasperation was exhausting, if Myra was honest. As much as her mood was the product of excessive adrenaline and a slowly failed attempt to control a vicious flight response, being tense and hostile was not the Trill's ordinary disposition and it brought no comfort to feel herself flip-flopping back to it as a means of trying to protect herself from breaking down entirely. The sudden emergence of a lump in her throat was not a welcome intrusion, neither was the spring of moisture to her eyes that hasty blinking was only partially successful in masking.

"It's more than enough to be the biggest culprit," she argued, aware that she was already starting to flush.

"Go on," he urged gently. Experience had taught him that the best way to let these things see the light was to say very little and allow Myra to express them herself.

Success, in this instance, was a little unorthodox, if only because it didn't quite yield the expected result. Rather than an explanation of her mood, Myra was finally pushed towards an adjustment of posture, turning to face the nurse so that she could fix him with an expression rife with baffled irritation.

"What is it with you and these interrogation techniques? Why is it that the only conversation you try to make involves chastising me about something? I do my job, you ask me twenty-questions about where I've been and how many supplies I've stolen on the way."

This, whether Mitchell remembered or not, was a clear reference to a previous conversation that had clearly stuck with the Trill.

"Now, we're trapped in some alternate hellscape version of a possible future, in a ship that can barely maintain basic living standards much less withstand an actual attack, and you want to know why I'm stressed? Why aren't you! How is this not the perfect situation to justify being absolutely scared stiff!"

He considered that for a second before replying. After all, she was right; this was an incredibly unusual and daunting situation to be in. But for someone like Eddie, that never seemed to bother him.

"Well-" he was about to parse some wisdom about managing stress and bearing into the moment, when the lights around them flashed and an intruder alert klaxon sounded. "Remind me why we joined Starfleet again?"

"Not again."

It was a quiet protest, murmured without consideration for it being overheard by present company, which suggested the words had escaped before Myra had any kind of chance to engage rational thought. Whatever colour she'd mustered through embarrassment drained immediately, and a steadying hand against the wall of the turbolift seemed intent on establishing whether or not the world around her was going to suddenly pitch sideways yet again.

"Why am I always in turbolifts when this happens!"

Fear transformed into frustration, which at least had some momentum beyond freezing to the spot. The difficulty was knowing which direction to move in, when the doors were still closed and the young doctor was in no rush to refamiliarise herself with the features of a lift-shaft.

"What do we do!"

"I recommend not staying in a broken turbolift," Eddie replied, sounding like he was joking but actually serious this time. "We're at least a few decks up from the bottom of the shaft. Let's see if we can get the door open..." he said, reaching for the manual override and giving it a crank. "Still no communications?"

"I already did this yesterday."

It was a plaintive, weary resignation that had taken the bite entirely out of Myra's tone. At this rate, she was going to add 'riding in turbolifts' to her list of situations she had to convince herself not to avoid, which seemed a lot more logistically challenging than occasionally having to psyche herself up to ride in shuttles.

Blinking rapidly, she brought herself out of her reverie to consider what Mitchell had asked and tapped her comm. badge. The only sound was the soft thud of contact, a lack of resulting chirp to signifiy activation wasn't promising.

"I guess not."

"Just don't say anything else that might jinx us," Eddie retorted, trying to stay entirely positive in the face of not only the setback but also Myra's demeanor. He cranked the override twice more, letting the doors slide ajar enough to peek out of. Unfortunately, it was somewhat dark beyond. "Deck...ten? I think?"

It took every ounce of remaining strength not to shrink back into the turbolift in search of a corner to bury herself into. Wincing, Myra peered out into the gloom and realised she had no chance of identifying anything with such poor visibility, she'd hardly had time to memorise the ship's layout yet.

"Are we anywhere near triage?"

"Auxiliary sickbay," Eddie nodded, opening the doors a little further and creating a space wide enough for him to be able to squeeze through. It took a little effort but he managed to clamber through before turning to her and offer a hand. "Better than staying inside that deathtrap, right?"

Perhaps there was something to be said for it taking an entire shipwide emergency, a fresh one, to finally budge Myra's attitude. Whatever the case, there was nothing much left of the imperious snappishness left about the Trill, instead reduced to a plaintive, hollow resignation as she stared back and seemed, at least for a minute, about to disagree.

Then, with a visible deflation lowering her shoulders, Myra reached out and took his hand, squeezing her eyes closed as she navigated the tight exit with a clenched jaw.

"Let's just go."