[Backsim] Ensign Theridion Grallator - End of the Beginning
Boris Stefanovski
(( Assembly Bay/Observation Bay, Starbase One ))
(( Overlooking both the USS Chin’toka and the USS Valkyrie-A ))
Grallator found himself swept into the grand ceremony aboard Starbase One, a reluctant participant in Starfleet’s endless rituals of recognition. From his sardonic perspective, the event was less about honor and more about bureaucracy dressed in pomp, with ribbons serving as shiny distractions from the horrors of ghost ships and shrieking artifacts. He observed his crewmates receiving awards with polite detachment, noting how unfamiliar faces multiplied faster than he could catalogue them, while the few he actually knew—like Ada—offered a faint sense of comfort amidst the chaos. Even his own unexpected summons to the front felt surreal, as though the universe had underlined his existence in bold italics, leaving him both embarrassed and bemused.
As the ceremony shifted toward farewells and the announcement of their transfer to the Valkyrie‑A, Grallator’s inner commentary remained a blend of dread and absurd humor. A heavy cruiser promised bigger corridors to get lost in, larger systems to break, and more opportunities for inconvenient survival. Yet his focus quickly drifted to the buffet, where pickled eggs became trophies of victory more tangible than any ribbon. For him, the grandeur of command changes and speeches dissolved into the practical truth that heroism was best digested with snacks, and that survival—whether from ghost ships or ceremonies—was always accompanied by a wry complaint and a briny mouthful.
Grallator: Yes, that too. My parents’ hair would stand on end—if they had any, of course—when I tell them. In fact, I suspect they’ll manage to look scandalized anyway, which is quite an achievement for people who are technically bald. They’ve always had a knack for expressing shock without the usual biological equipment, relying instead on eyebrows, sighs, and the occasional dramatic silence. So yes, when I explain this transfer, I fully expect them to perform the traditional parental display of alarm, hair or no hair.
V’Nille: They sound like they’re quite expressive. You said they would be scandalized? Do they not approve of your career in Starfleet?
Grallator: Well, scandalized is their default setting. They don’t so much disapprove of Starfleet as they disapprove of everything. If I told them I’d taken up knitting, they’d find a way to look horrified—probably by sighing in triplicate and filing a complaint with the Department of Yarn. So yes, they’ll be scandalized, but it’s more performance art than genuine concern. Most of it comes from the fact that I didn’t follow my father into Engineering and instead majored in Security. To them, that’s practically heresy—trading warp cores for phasers. And when they hear it’s a heavy cruiser, they’ll insist it doesn’t match their expectations either, though frankly I suspect their expectations were designed to be impossible from the start.
V’Nille: Ah, that makes sense. Parents can be … difficult, at times. I’m blessed with parents that are fully supportive of me being here. I think they’re more amused at the fact that I joined on impulse more than anything.
Grallator: Supportive parents, Commander, are rather like unicorns—everyone insists they exist, but you only ever hear about them in other people’s anecdotes. Mine prefer to express encouragement through ominous silences and the occasional eyebrow twitch, which in our culture is considered the equivalent of a twenty‑minute standing ovation. It’s a system that keeps me humble, or at least perpetually baffled, since one never quite knows whether the silence means ‘well done’ or ‘we’re drafting your obituary.
V’Nille: Oh yes, very much on impulse. I was walking around, as one does when they’re bored and seeking something to do, and ran into the Starfleet recruiting center. We got to talking, he offered to let me take the test for the Academy to see how well I’d do, annndd I failed. ::chuckles:: But I didn’t like that feeling of failing at a test like that, so I studied some more and retook it. I remember right, I got it on the third try.
She reached out for another piece of meat and dispatched it in a single bite, the sort of casual efficiency that made it look less like eating and more like a classified Starfleet maneuver. To Grallator, it resembled a minor ballet performed with a cube of protein as the star performer—graceful, decisive, and faintly alarming. He couldn’t help but wonder if Starfleet secretly trained its officers in snack‑based combat, because if so, she had clearly graduated with honors.
V’Nille: And that’s how Starfleet got stuck with me!
Grallator: Impulse decisions seem to be Starfleet’s unofficial recruitment strategy. One moment you’re wandering past a recruiting center, the next you’re knee‑deep in exploding corridors and ghost ships. Personally, I joined because I thought the uniform came with pockets. It didn’t. But by the time I realized, I was already signed up, and bureaucracy has a way of holding you hostage. So here we are with one buffet table, and a future heavy cruiser to break.
V’Nille: Response
Grallator shoved another pickled egg into his mouth and chewed it with the desperate speed of a man hoping to finish before the universe noticed.
Grallator: I agree, Commander—I’d have done the same myself. A pity I never actually met the Captain, though; it feels rather like serving under a myth you only hear about in passing.
V’Nille: Response
Grallator: Yes, I’ve heard that about her—though in Starfleet, ‘hearing things about someone’ usually means receiving three contradictory reports, a rumor involving time travel, and a footnote suggesting she might also be a figment of collective imagination. Which, frankly, makes her one of the more reliable captains I wish I’ve met.
V’Nille: Response
Grallator: I should head to the Chin’toka now, Commander—time to prep for the transfer. Bob’s not going to take the move well; he treats relocation as a personal insult. I expect at least two full days of dramatic sighing, punctuated by the kind of soulful looks only a he can weaponize.
V’Nille: Response
Grallator started toward the door, then turned back to glance at the Chin’toka. He decided he wasn’t really going to miss the ship; sentiment required time, and he’d barely had enough of that to learn which corridor led to the lavatory. The vessel remained, to him, less a home and more a temporary lodging provided by an overzealous bureaucracy—like being assigned a hotel room by someone who’d never actually seen the hotel. Ships, he reflected, only became beloved after years of shared disasters, and the Chin’toka had offered him merely a sampler platter of confusion and ghostly shrieking. Hardly the stuff of nostalgia.
Ensign Theridion Grallator
Engineering Officer
USS Valkyrie NCC-76418-A
C240207TG3