El Lugar de Nadie: Part III - Fire, Then Silence

Posted on Sun Jan 18th, 2026 @ 3:59pm by 1st Lieutenant Ángel Martinez

2,483 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Character Backstories
Location: USS Pathfinder
Timeline: 2386, 1 week after Martinez transferred

2386: Holodeck 1, USS Pathfinder – Marine Detachment Training

The corridor narrowed ahead. Bulkhead seams tight, floor plating scuffed. The core ran dirty...it was part of the charm. One wrong shot and the whole thing could blow. Martinez dropped into cover behind a bulkhead, shoulder braced to steel. The team stacked around them, quiet and ready.

Oswin had been playing with the comms, scanning channels until Gladius Actual and Gladius One-One finally cut through. A voice cracked over the line, male, firm but steady. A Sergeant’s tone, not an officer’s. “Contact right!”

It hit too close to the bone. Not the words. The tone. That urgency. The tight-threaded edge in someone’s voice that meant you had five seconds or you'd be bleeding.

The holodeck blurred.

“Down. Now.”

That voice...Jace’s voice...had come just before the sky had ripped open. The shell hadn’t screamed. It had landed like silence collapsing. And then shrapnel, hot, wet, and alive.

Something, many somethings, had sliced across Martinez’s face: nose, cheekbone, brow, side. Shrapnel in an arc, only saved because they had hit the deck when Morven had called out. The world had tilted. The mud had tasted of ash and copper. Someone had screamed. Not them. Not Jace. Someone younger.

Martinez pressed their palm to their cheek now, fingers grazing nothing but healed skin, the scar in their eyebrow, and remembered lines. They blinked hard once. The corridor returned. The bulkhead was metal, not mud.

No blood. No weight pressing down. Just sweat on the back of their neck and the faint sting of recycled air. They sucked in a sharp breath. Exhaled slowly.

Khouri gave a glance, eyes on them as if judging the shape of a problem. “Sir?”

Martinez met his eyes. “All good.” It wasn’t a lie. Just the past moving through them like weather. They shifted their grip on the rifle. Gave the signal. Junction next. And behind the breath and the sweat, the voice still echoed... but they pushed it aside.

I’m fine, Jace. You can stand down. Like putting a ghost to sleep.

Engineering was clear. Martinez’s team swept through the lower level fast, Khouri breaching first, one private peeling off to cover the upper catwalk while Martinez checked the main power relays. No hostiles. Just the hum of the warp core sim and the faint hiss of a busted coolant line running on loop. The room smelled like nothing, but the lights flickered for effect, and a timer on the wall ran just fast enough to feel urgent.

“Clear,” Khouri called.

“Confirmed,” Martinez echoed. “Hold position.”

They moved into defensive layout, sector coverage settled in muscle memory. It was almost too smooth. Which meant...

A flash of light. A simulated explosion. Everyone hit the deck. And then…

“Sir?” came a voice from the floor. “I’m down. Bleeding. Possibly terminal.”

“Shit…” Oswin crawled over, rifle close, to do a check.

Martinez looked over. One of the privates...Hennessey, they thought...was sprawled theatrically beside a console. The holodeck had tagged him as the designated casualty for the scenario, a red pulse blinking above his shoulder. He’d leaned into it hard. One hand clutching his stomach, the other draped dramatically over his brow.

“So dark…” Hennessey said mournfully. “So sad...everything’s fading…I see the great embrace….”

Oswin was grinning and poked him. “Damn…look at this. How is it to be dead, Marine? How does it feel?”

“Cold…lonely…” Hennessey said dramatically, then scratched his chin just under the helmet strap. “And I’m hungry. Skipped breakfast...” His stomach rumbled loudly in the space, just to illustrate.

“Idiot,” Khouri muttered, but gave a small smile.

Martinez didn’t break stride. Reached into their vest pouch, pulled out a ration bar and tossed it across the floor. It skidded once, then bumped against Hennessey’s outstretched hand. “Chocnut,” they said, lightly. “You get half if you stay dead for the full five minutes.”

Hennessey lifted his head just enough to eye the wrapper, then slumped back into his dramatic pose with renewed commitment.

Khouri snorted. One of the other Marines gave a low chuckle. Even the ‘casualty’ grinned. Quiet bonds formed like that. One ration bar, one joke at the right moment. Nothing big. Just… pressure, eased.

Nothing stayed eased for long though. A beep, then a rush of static, and it broke through on the open channel.

“-we’re overrun! They’re coming in from both sides, this is a damned suicide op–”

Different voice. Different team. Definitely not one of Martinez’s.

“Where the hell is Gladius Actual? This is insane! We don’t have the numbers to hold the choke point here! Who designed this thing?”

The voice was too loud, too raw. Not panicked in a funny way. Panicked like something vital had cracked beneath the weight. “We’re all going to die!”

Across the room, Khouri winced. He didn’t speak immediately, just leaned slightly toward Martinez, voice pitched low. “Sir, not to be that person, but the other company lieutenant may be a detriment to morale.”

Martinez tapped their comm unit. A flick of the fingers. The channel cut. Silence dropped like a blanket across the squad. They exhaled slowly, not too deep…calm, measured. Remembered the face the voice belonged to. “Sometimes it happens in combat. Best to get it out in training first, less chance of it happening in the field.”

Khouri gave a half nod, expression unreadable but steady. “Understood, Sir.”

The squad read the tone and settled in…Hennessey staying “dead” with a contented crunch from the ration bar, the rest cycling checks, resetting positions. The sim wasn’t over, but their side of the op had gone still. Controlled.

Martinez leaned back against the bulkhead. Let the silence stretch just enough to hold.

The lights in the holodeck rose slow…no fanfare, just that quiet fade from simulation to grid. Marines were already unbuckling gear, sweat damp in regulation fabric. A few muttered post-op jokes. Someone made a half-hearted sound effect of a warp core breaching. Hennessey still had crumbs on his chin.

Captain Derlin was already at the front of the room, arms crossed too tightly across his chest like he was bracing for applause that wasn’t coming. His jaw was set, eyes moving like he was counting variables no longer in play. The look he gave Martinez was cold but they didn’t really care about that.

The Marine CO entered last. Major Evran. Tall, lined at the eyes, voice like a ship’s keel. Her hair was tied back with precision, her uniform immaculate in that effortless way that said she hadn’t dressed to impress anyone but still outranked them all. She’d served enough years to see through polished reports and enough operations to know the difference between loud leadership and effective command. She stood for a moment. Looked at the squad. Said nothing. Her eyes flicked, quadrant by quadrant. Then she barked. “What the hell happened with Two-Two and Two-One shooting at each other?”

The silence was instant. Breathing stilled. No one rushed to fill the space. Martinez stayed quiet. Khouri did the same. Even Oswin, who had been half-grinning only seconds ago, turned toward the floor and found his boot laces suddenly interesting.

Derlin cleared his throat. “There was confusion on their flank, sir. Miscommunication. Comms slippage. I believed they’d been neutralised during breach, so I updated Gladius Two-One to assume loss and re-route.”

Evran turned. Stared at him. Just long enough to let discomfort bloom. “And?”

“They were under my command, and…coordination was delayed. Could’ve gone smoother. Lieutenant Martinez didn’t seem to know communications protocol.”

Eyes shifted subtly toward Martinez. No drama. Just the gravity of the moment tilting a degree. Martinez didn’t adjust posture…they didn’t need to, not in their eyes. “Orders issued were to breach portside and take engineering. We attempted to establish communications with Gladius Actual. Only received static. It was thanks to the experience of the team that we finally re-established communications, but only after we were engaged by our own side.” They paused. Not for effect, but to read the room. “We took engineering with one casualty. Did not spot the tripwire.”

Behind them, Khouri’s expression didn’t shift, but there was the faintest incline of his head, barely perceptible unless you were looking. A subtle affirmation.

Major Evran blinked once. A small flicker of confusion passed over her features, then cleared. She looked over at Derlin. “Captain,” she said, tone neutral but anchoring. “Did you issue the briefing PADDs with the communication protocols?”

Derlin hesitated. Just for a beat. “I meant to. It was on the command server. I assumed…”

“You assumed,” she said, cutting him off with the efficiency of a scalpel, “that the squads would guess their way through a holodeck training simulation with what? Their magic Marine senses?”

Derlin didn’t respond.

Before the pause could stretch further, another presence shifted. Company Sergeant Major Trivens had been standing at the side like a carved statue, jaw set, gloves still tucked under one arm. Now he stepped forward just a fraction. Not enough to draw formal attention, but enough to reassert the weight of his role. “Captain,” he said, voice gravelled but precise, “do not assume. Marines don’t assume. They execute based on facts. Not hopes. Not short-cuts.”

Evran didn’t interrupt. She just let the silence sit. Trivens’ words hit like a low thud, landing where they needed to. A few Marines straightened. Derlin’s neck flushed slightly red. Evran looked back at Martinez. “You should’ve demanded it. Even in simulation. Don’t walk into battle blind, Lieutenant. Real or fake. Marines make do, yes. But it’s stupid to make do with less than you’ve got.” It wasn’t said with anger. No edge. Just truth, stripped bare and left in the air between them.

Martinez nodded once. “Understood, Sir.”

Evran turned her gaze back to Derlin. “You’ll send an after-action report by 0900. No excuses. No fiction. Take this as a learning experience. All of you.”

Derlin nodded stiffly. His lips parted like he wanted to say more, but he thought better of it. Martinez didn’t say a word. But they observed the slight tremble in Derlin’s jaw and decided he was a good five years younger than they’d first thought. Not incompetent, just…maybe promoted before he was ready.

Or maybe, Martinez was still, after ten years, running half a brain on enlisted instincts instead of the bigger picture. They’d learn. They always did. They’d survived worse, and this wasn’t punishment. This was a…chance to recalibrate.

Evran’s eyes moved again, sharp and unsparing, until they landed on another face. Lieutenant Abid. The youngest of the group, still pale from watching the earlier debacle unfold. The one whose voice had cracked over the comms, panic bleeding through like a fracture under pressure.

“It leads me to the next bit,” Evran said, tone deceptively mild. “Lieutenant Abid.”

He straightened, eyes wide, throat working like he wanted to swallow something heavy and dry.

Evran didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. “Panic over the comms is unacceptable for a Marine officer. That’s the sort of thing they do in the regular Fleet. Marines don’t panic. They adapt. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am,” Abid gave a nod, too fast, voice thin but audible.

Evran held his gaze for a second longer. Then: “Dismissed.”

Around the room, boots shifted. The debrief was over, but the lesson would stretch far longer. And Martinez, quiet in the ripple of release, simply took it all in.

Everyone filtered out, gear half-loosened, shoulders dropping now that the weight of evaluation had passed. The holodeck reverted to the default grid. Blank walls. Neutral lights. The echo of footfalls louder now without environmental texture to muffle them.

Martinez hesitated. Waited until the last pair of boots cleared. Then went to the wall panel and checked. No one had booked the holodeck for the next block. “Computer, load…any forest programme with peaceful perimeters.”

The grid shimmered. Trees began to rise around them, tall and moss-draped, filtered light dappling the ground like memory. A low mist clung to the forest floor, and birdsong lifted in lazy spirals. Martinez let it wash over them without analysis. Just quiet reception.

They found a fallen log and sat, pulling out the PADD. The edge of the bench was rough under one thigh. Good. Something real. They balanced the screen on their knee and began the after-action report with practiced fingers, still in gloves.

Khouri found them there. Quiet boots, slower than usual. He didn’t call out or frame his presence in command. Just walked up, stopped a metre or so away. Then, after a pause, stepped forward and sat on the log beside them.

No words at first. Just a presence, breathing beside them. Trees rustled. The smell of damp leaves and simulated loam pressed soft against the stillness.

Then, with a glance over his shoulder to confirm they were alone, Khouri spoke. “They all know you’re FGF now.”

Martinez didn’t look up. Just nodded once and scrolled down to the casualty section. Entered Hennessey’s holodeck ‘injury’ with a brief comment about response time.

Khouri shifted slightly beside them, elbows resting on his knees. “You’re going to have to work twice as hard,” he added. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just matter-of-fact. Like he might say rain was coming.

Martinez tapped the final field closed. Their fingers stilled. Then they turned to meet his gaze. Not defensive. Not flinching. “I expected nothing less.” No bitterness in the voice. No weariness either. Just a quiet certainty. The kind of weight that didn't need emphasis.

Khouri studied them a moment longer. His brow creased, but only faintly. Then he gave that small, almost imperceptible nod that wasn’t quite approval, but wasn’t dismissal either.

He stood. Left without another word.

Martinez stayed. Let the birdsong settle again. Heard something winged flutter through the branches above. Closed their eyes for a beat, then opened them. The screen still glowed in their lap.

Then they let the PADD drop lightly beside them on the log.

A soft, strangled sound escaped. Somewhere between a sigh and a frustrated groan. And then, before they could stop it, a short laugh. Dry. Ironic.

“Shit,” they muttered to the trees. To the empty air. To themselves. A curse, but also a joke. A release valve. The kind of word you offer the universe when you lie in the bed you made…and decided you'd be comfortable enough.

---end---

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