Something Like Trust, Part 2

Posted on Sat Oct 18th, 2025 @ 2:23am by Lieutenant Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Lieutenant JG Fulvia

1,546 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Peril at the Unification Accords
Location: Intelligence Offices, Deck 8
Timeline: MD007, 1230 Hours

"Fulvia," he began, his voice edging on certainty. "You asked me about Bryn'kal Three"--he swallowed hard as if saying the word might bring back more pain--"and while I can't give you the full details on what happened, I will share with you enough so you can decide whether I can be trusted or not. Fair?"

"Fair." came the former gladiatrix's reply. Her tone was that of nought but understanding.

Jean-Baptiste leaned forward, digging his elbows into his knees. He rubbed his palms together once and touched them to his cheeks before speaking.

"Bryn'kal Three wasn't just a bad day, Fulvia--it was a betrayal." His voice stayed low, but the words came out with hard edges. "We went there to bring them closer to the Federation. We wanted peace and partnership. Instead, the extremists staged an ambush that killed half the people at the table. The rest were taken hostage. Before we could do anything, they were executed. Just like that. We never even had a chance to talk them down."

He paused, staring at the lines on his own hands. "That should have been the end of it. A tragedy we grieved and learned from. But it wasn't. I received orders--from very high up--that we were to hit their strongholds. Three targets. Precise strikes. Only... those strongholds weren't just extremist bases. They were located in the middle of cities, near schools, hospitals, residences--places where Bryn'kalians lived their lives."

His jaw clenched as he recalled. "I flagged it. I said it was madness. I was told to do it anyway. And when the torpedoes hit, one of the strikes went wrong. There had been a chemical plant storing waste gas underground. That torpedo ignited and took several square kilometers with it. Whole blocks gone in seconds." He leveled his eyes at the Magna Roman's, seeing if her expression betrayed any judgment.

"Fulvia," he said softly, dropping his eyes to the coffee table. "I signed that order. Forty-seven civilians, nine of ours, seventy-six of theirs. Dead."

He swallowed, his voice thinning. "The official record says we wiped out extremists with surgical precision. The Bryn'kal government got what it wanted, the Federation got its foothold, and the lie became written in stone. They even gave me a commendation for it. But the truth is--" He shook his head slowly. "The truth is I killed those people, and then I watched the people above me wash the blood off their hands like it never even happened."

His eyes moved up again, his gaze meeting Fulvia's. "That's what I carry. That's what you need to know."

A few words in magna roman latin escaped the intel officer's lips. Her pose and tone didn't change, showing understanding. "You were given faulty intelligence. The fault lies with the individual who didn't do their job. You have my word that will not happen here."

JB could feel how silent the room had become. It was almost as if they could both hear the dust setting on the suite's surfaces.

"Maybe," he said at last. "But the order was written by me, given to the First Officer of the USS Syracuse, and I demanded she verify with Starfleet for flag authorization." He exhaled through his nose, slowly. "We need a subject change."

JB laughed ruefully and, reaching for another piece of bread, said, "Tell me about yourself, Fulvia."

"Oh, nothing much." The Magna Roman said before starting. "I was born in a Ludus Magnus of Magna Roman to one of the arena's fiercest gladiatrix. Raised in the house of her master till I was old enough to start the training myself. Like my mother, I turned out to have a talent for it. Earned the master of the house a fair amount of coin. I became the youngest winner of the grand championship at age fifteen. Also found out my father was one of the wealthiest senators on the planet. He legitimized me that very day, and I also found out I have a half-brother and two half sisters." Her tone became very bitter at the mention of her half sisters.

He listened, his hands resting loosely on his knees. Fulvia's words seemed to carry a flat rhythm of someone who learned not to flinch when it came to her past.

"Fifteen," he said with interest. "That's young for a championship."

"I killed my first opponent at thirteen. It wasn't even a death match; she slipped on some bloody sand and impaled herself on my blade. " She said, letting out her own painful sigh. "Winning the championship was easy after that. Just ignore the faces of your opponent. Avoiding the assassins paid by my mother-in-law and half-sisters wasn't. Fortunately, my father had contacts in the federation. They got me off planet and enlisted me in Starfleet Intelligence."

His expression barely moved, though there was something in his eyes that deepened at her mention of taking someone else's life at such a tender age.

He leaned back on the sofa, one arm resting along the cushion. "That's... quite the start to a résumé," he said quietly. "I don't believe many people's paths to Starfleet are paved with blades and hired assassins."

"I started the relationship with the love of my life by stabbing him." She added with a slight grin forming on her face, "intelligence's fault."

Jean-Baptiste couldn't help it--he laughed. A real one this time. Not sharp or forced, but the kind that starts deep in the ribs and happens to climb out on its own.

"You stabbed him? he said, the corners of his mouth still threatening to climb higher.

"I was undercover as part of a pirate gang. Part of my fake identity was taking on the role of a lounge singer at their base. Now most of this pirate gang were Gorn so intel wanted me to have some backup. They told me they'd send in a Gorn operative whose backstory was meant to be an old flame and to keep this cover, i was stab him in the side and demand some money he owed me. Only Intel messed up. They sent a certain Dragonian, gave him the wrong info on my background and didn't even give him a Kevlar sack where I was supposed to stab him, i don't know how we didn't blow that whole operation in that moment," she explained, no hint of lies escaping from her lips.

JB laughed again, quieter this time, because the image was ridiculous and because ridiculousness was its own kind of mercy.

"Only Intelligence could stage a romance and nearly get the lead killed for lack of paperwork." He reached for the bread and tore off a piece, the motion as ordinary as a yawn. "It's oddly comforting to know incompetence is universal. Though, I am glad it didn't sink the operation."

"I did give my lord and husband two daughters, so I think he got over it." She added, laughing slightly. "So now that we know each other's laundry, do you think we can work with each other?"

Jean-Baptiste let the quiet stretch between them for a few moments longer. The echoes of his own laughter still lingered in his ears, and though his eyes had softened somewhat, he still felt as though Bryn'kal Three might forever prove to be too much for him to carry.

"Yes," he said finally. His tone was even again, restored to the same measured cadence he always employed when something needed to said and meant. "We can work together, Fulvia. I think we'll make a good team."

He let out a small exhale through his nose, not a sigh but something else. His hand drifted toward the glass of water she'd set out for him earlier. He took a sip and then stared into it.

"I owe you an apology," he said. "For the outburst earlier."

"No, you don't need to apologise, Jean." She replied calmly. "I wouldn't blame anyone who has to carry the weight of an event like that with them."

JB sat back, letting his shoulder ease just a fraction. "And for what it's worth," he said, his voice sounding almost human again, "if the rest of Intelligence had half your candor, maybe I'd still be wearing their colours."

He reached for another olive, rolling it between his fingers absently before popping it into his mouth. "But I guess the universe has a sense of humour."

"It most certainly does. Especially given Intel's view on my husband." Came her, reply as she took a piece of bread and cheese which she popped into her mouth. "Now." she said wiping her hands on a napkin she had on the table. "To business."

Jean-Baptiste reached for his PADD, thumbed it awake, and began outlining their new flow protocols--intel to security, security back to intel. And for the first time in a long while, the work ahead didn't feel like a punishment. It felt like purpose.

---

Lieutenant JG Fulvia
Intelligence Officer
USS Astrea


Lieutenant J.G. Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Assistant Chief Security Officer
USS Astrea

 

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