Ensign Theridion Grallator - 9 to 5
Boris Stefanovski
((Engineering Conference Room A, USS Chin’Toka, Orbit of Risa))
Grallator's head was throbbing in a way that suggested his brain had taken up amateur percussion and was currently rehearsing for a particularly aggressive jazz festival. Sleep had been elusive, evasive, and possibly armed. The cocktails on Risa—marketed as “Happy” but clearly brewed by someone with unresolved emotional issues—had staged a coup in his digestive system sometime around 3 a.m. and were now demanding reparations. He rolled out of bed with the grace of a malfunctioning replicator and the dignity of a sock caught in a warp coil. The call to Engineering Conference Room A had come precisely three seconds after he’d considered pretending to be dead. It was, he suspected, the universe’s way of saying, “Nice try.” Dressing was a challenge. His uniform had developed folds in dimensions not previously charted by Starfleet, and his boots were engaged in a passive-aggressive standoff with his feet. Bob, his pet —temperament judgmental—gave a sigh so disapproving it could have been weaponized. Grallator patted him anyway, which only made Bob sigh louder, like a kettle of existential disappointment. Breakfast was a stew. Allegedly. It hailed from Earth and was described as “intestine-filled,” which was either a culinary descriptor or a warning label. It had the consistency of regret and the aroma of something that had lost a bet with a compost heap. They said it was good for hangovers. “They” were probably the same people who thought warp core breaches built character. Still, he ate it. Because in the grand tradition of Starfleet officers with questionable life choices, Grallator knew one thing: if the stew didn’t kill him, the meeting probably would.
As Grallator entered Engineering Conference Room A—still wrestling his uniform into something resembling straight lines and dignity—he spotted another ensign already present. Engineering division, by the look of her: a Human female, slightly shorter than him, with black hair. She was leaning against the console in a way that suggested she either knew exactly what she was doing or had given up trying to look like she didn’t. Grallator opened his mouth to offer a greeting—something neutral, vaguely friendly, and unlikely to be misinterpreted by Starfleet HR—but before he could deploy it, she took a sip from a suspiciously steaming cup and began speaking.
Koyama: Grallator, I really don’t like these reports. Are you seeing the fluctuations in environmental controls? Theres a .15 power variance, nearly over the allowed values.
Grallator: ::rubbing his eyes:: I see them the way one sees a spider in their shower—unexpected, mildly terrifying, and likely to ruin your morning routine. A .15 variance isn’t catastrophic, but it’s definitely the kind of number that makes the environmental controls start whispering ominously to each other when they think we’re not listening. ::He leaned closer to the console, squinting at the data like it owed him money:: If this keeps up, we’ll either have a tropical rainforest in Deck 7 or a spontaneous glacier in the mess hall. Can we blame the coffee machine??:: he smiled::
Koyama: I just don’t like the idea of Lieutenant Xiron coming back to all this. I’ve got a few more to go over, did you find anything?
Thinking felt like wading through molasses, but even through the haze, Lieutenant Is’Kah’s voice echoed—something she’d said during the tour, sharp and oddly intact.
Grallator: Lieutenant Is’Kah noted a minor shield imbalance aft of the weapons pod. The resulting harmonic distortion introduces a structural vulnerability in the Akira-class—refit included. Might be worth a deeper diagnostic,
Koyama: Just. Great. Well, she is going to be here soon. Let’s get our reports merged up and we can get her briefed, then end our shift. I’ve got a new recipe for Matcha Bread I’ve been working on and I’m really wanting to try it out. What about you?
Grallator: Honestly? I was planning to crawl into my bunk and negotiate a ceasefire with whatever’s been pounding behind my eye. If your Matcha Bread can double as a neural stabilizer, I’ll take two slices and call it medicine.
After a short while—though not so short that anyone could accuse it of efficiency—the door to the conference room slid open with the kind of mechanical sigh that suggested it had seen too many briefings and not enough oil. Through it stepped a pale blue Andorian female Lieutenant, approximately 165 centimeters tall, give or take the gravitational mood of the deck plating. Grallator squinted. His brain, currently operating at half impulse and one-quarter caffeine, couldn’t quite triangulate her height, but it did manage to dredge up a name: Lieutenant Xiron. Thankfully, Koyama had mentioned it earlier, otherwise he’d have defaulted to “Xerox,” which was not only incorrect but also the sort of mistake that could get you reassigned to plasma conduit maintenance in the lower decks, where the only thing that greeted you was static discharge and existential regret. Grallator straightened his posture and tried very hard to look like someone who hadn’t just considered calling a superior officer by the name of a 21st-century photocopier.
Xiron: Good morning
oODo not say “Xerox.” Do not say “Xerox.”Oo
Grallator: Good morning, Lieutenant Xiron. Lovely shade of blue today—very commandingly glacial.
oOThat wasn’t betterOo
Koyama: Response
Xiron: It is good to finally meet you.
He extended his hand in greeting, wearing a grin so desperate it could’ve filed for asylum. It was the kind of smile that said, “Please don’t fire me through the photon torpedo tube, I bruise easily and my insurance doesn’t cover orbital mishaps.” His posture tried to convey confidence, but mostly resembled a man attempting diplomacy with a vending machine that had eaten his last credit. The hand hovered there—awkward, hopeful, and slightly clammy—like a peace offering from someone who’d just insulted your grandmother’s antennae.
Grallator: ::he blinked rapidly:: It’s good to finally meet you too.
For once, his mouth had managed to form words without summoning disciplinary action or interstellar offense. No accidental insult, no mispronounced rank, and—most importantly—no mention of office equipment. It was a small victory, but in Starfleet, small victories were often the only kind that didn’t come with a mandatory debrief and a stern chat with a Vulcan.
Koyama: Response
Xiron: How has your shore leave been so far? These pleasure planets are something else.
Grallator: Oh, you know. I sampled the local cuisine, got mildly electrocuted by a sentient cocktail umbrella, and accidentally joined a dance cult that worships gravity fluctuations. So, pretty standard. ::He rubbed the back of his neck, where the ceremonial glitter still lingered like a bad decision:: I mean, the brochure said “relaxation and rejuvenation,” but I think they meant “existential confusion and mild dehydration.” Still, I haven’t been reassigned to mop duty yet, so I’m counting it as a win. ::He offered a sheepish grin, the kind that said “I may have offended a planetary deity, but I did it politely.”::
Koyama: Response
Xiron: Well, it seems you two have been taking good care of the ship.
He glanced around the room with the guilty awareness of someone who hadn’t so much as polished a single bolt, let alone cleaned one. Not even a courtesy wipe.
Grallator: Oh absolutely, Lieutenant. We’ve kept her running smoother than a Ferengi tax loophole. No fires, no mutinies, and only one incident involving a tribble, a replicator, and a very confused Bolian chef. ::He ginned:: I even put some glitter on the warp nacelles. Just to boost morale.
Koyama: Response
Xiron: So, before we get into the nuts and bolts of the Engineering Task List why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves? What made you want to be an Engineer? Why Starfleet? If that is too intrusive, we can just start with something more practical and talk about what field of Engineering you specialized in.
He hoisted an eyebrow with the solemn effort of a man raising a cathedral bell—slow, creaky, and entirely too symbolic. The question had returned, like a tax auditor with a vendetta, asked so many times it was starting to echo in his dreams. The eyebrow, now a seasoned veteran, considered filing for overtime.
Grallator: My father was an Engineer in Starfleet and I wanted to be in Security. I majored in Security and minored in Engineering, which basically means I know how to stop things from blowing up—and how to make them blow up better when the situation calls for it. The Academy said I showed “exceptional aptitude in Deflectors, Weapons Systems, and Tactical Security Protocols,” which is their way of saying I passed the classes without setting anything on fire. Except that one time. With the plasma conduit. And the cake. It was a crossover curriculum, which meant I got to juggle coursework from both departments while being told by three separate instructors that my approach was “unorthodox,” “innovative,” and “grounds for disciplinary review.” The final transcript described it as “operational aptitude with hybridized proficiency,” which sounds impressive until you realize it’s just bureaucratic code for “knows how to reroute power and lock doors at the same time.” And somehow I was assigned here in Engineering. Which is great.
Koyama/Xiron: Response
Grallator: I had too many Risan cocktails last night. That’s why I might seem a bit off today.
Koyama/Xiron: Response
Grallator: The ones with miniature umbrellas that hummed jazz and carried the emotional weight of a failed marriage.
Koyama/Xiron: Response
Ensign Theridion Grallator
Engineering Officer
USS Chin'toka NCC-97187
C240207TG3