Off the Clock

Posted on Fri Mar 27th, 2026 @ 2:12am by Lieutenant JG Jalen Young & Ensign Tyler Faulkner & Ensign Eugene Fredricks & Ensign Kaaven Saenar & Chief Petty Officer Dazl

4,532 words; about a 23 minute read

Mission: Regula Gambit
Location: Crew Lounge - USS Proxima
Summary:
Timeline: Mission Day 2 at 1730

The tall Denobulan moved with an almost choreographed precision behind the curved bar of Proxima’s lounge. Every motion was practiced; efficient, but never rushed, hands gliding over polished surfaces and neatly arranged bottles as though he were conducting an orchestra only he could hear.

Any minute now, the tidal wave of off-duty crew would come pouring through the doors, eager to decompress, to gossip, to forget the demands of the day. Dazl welcomed that chaos. He thrived in it. Years of experience had honed him into something of a miracle-worker behind a bar: part mixologist, part counselor, part traffic controller.

“Make sure we clear those tables by the window. That’s prime real estate,” Dazl called out, his voice carrying easily across the lounge. His Federation Standard was impeccable, but his naturally nasally Denobulan accent tended to curl warmly around certain consonants, giving his words a friendly, distinctive musicality.

Two crewmembers in server uniforms nodded and scrambled toward the panoramic windows, hurriedly removing stray glasses and resetting the surfaces. They knew better than to question the Chief Steward’s instructions. Not because Dazl was intimidating, though with his height and sun-bright smile he certainly could be. No, the danger lay in disappointing him. His confidence, efficiency, and exacting standards often read as arrogance to those who didn’t know him well. To those who did, it was simply Dazl being Dazl.

He reached up to adjust a bottle on the top shelf, angling it just so until the label faced forward with showroom perfection. Presentation mattered. Ambiance mattered. People drank for taste, but they returned for atmosphere, and Dazl had every intention of making the ship’s lounge one of Proxima’s beating hearts.

As he stepped back to inspect the bar, the soft hiss of the doors signalled the inevitable. The first ripple of the post-shift rush had arrived.

Dazl’s smile widened, bright and effortless.“Showtime,” he murmured beneath his breath, rolling his shoulders before turning to greet the incoming crowd with the confident ease of a man exactly where he belonged.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Tyler Faulkner stepped through like a man who had just finished a marathon he hadn’t trained for. Even exhausted, the young navigator looked every bit the charming pretty-boy he knew he was. Brown hair falling just right even after hours on the bridge, warm brown eyes still bright despite the fatigue, and that effortless swagger that never fully disappeared no matter how tired he felt. Compact and athletic, he moved with the easy grace of someone who always assumed people were watching him. Usually, they were.

He reached for the flap of his maroon jacket and flicked it open as he walked. The gray division color contrasted cleanly against his uniform, the off-duty reveal almost ceremonial. Relief washed across his face. They were finally moving away from Regula’s orbit. He could breathe again. Tyler dropped onto a stool at the bar, leaving two seats open beside him. He leaned forward, running a hand through his hair before giving Dazl a weary, lopsided grin. “Whatever’s cold and quick,” he said, charm dimmed but still present.

Dazl nodded, the corner of his wide Denobulan smile lifting as if to say I’ve got exactly the thing for you. He moved with an easy grace behind the bar, efficient, but with the flair of someone who had long ago made a ritual out of service.

From the upper shelf he selected a tall, cuboid bottle whose glass shimmered with a sunset-orange liqueur threaded with drifting silver swirls. Frost clung to its edges like delicate lace. Even the bottle seemed to hum with cold. “Breen liqueur,” he said almost reverently, angling the label toward Tyler as though sharing a secret. “Stronger than it looks. Smoother than you’d expect.”

He uncorked the casque with a soft pop, releasing a faint crystalline mist into the air. The chill of it brushed across the bar, smelling faintly of citrus and something strangely glacial. Dazl reached for a frosted glass, its surface already clouded with condensation, and held it at the perfect angle. The liqueur poured in a slow, mesmerizing ribbon, the silver strands swirling hypnotically as they settled into the base. He slid the glass to Ensign Faulkner.

Tyler lifted the frosted glass and watched the silver strands drift through the Breen liqueur like slow, icy fireworks. The first sip hit him with a clean chill followed by a sharp citrus kick, and for a moment he considered the possibility of simply evaporating into the nearest chair. He let out a soft laugh under his breath. “I needed that,” he said, and the tension in his shoulders eased noticeably.

Ensign Kaaven Saenar stepped into the lounge with a sigh so theatrical it drew a few curious glances from nearby tables. The doors hissed shut behind him, muting the gentle murmur of off-duty conversation. He looked every bit like a man who had just wrestled with half the ship’s subspace systems, and lost the first three rounds.

He tugged open the front of his uniform jacket as he walked, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness earned from hours hunched over a console. His silver earpiece was still looped around his ear, as though he hadn’t yet convinced his brain the shift was actually over. The round bar glowed warmly under the lounge lights, and Kaaven made a beeline for it like a pilgrim returning to a sacred shrine. Coming to a stop next to Tyler, he nodded in greeting.

“Any chance I could get a gin martini,” The Comms officer said, leaning one elbow on the bar with a weary sort of elegance, “very dry, with a twist, please.” The please came out half-pleading, half-habit, softened by the trace of a Haliian lilt.

He exhaled again, less dramatic this time, more relieved, letting the tension leak from his shoulders as he slid onto a barstool next to Faulkner.

Dazl nodded, recognizing the look in Kaaven’s eyes, the soft exhaustion, the faint tension in his shoulders, the silent plea for something familiar to help melt the day away. These were the moments he understood best. Officers coming off duty, eager to shed the weight of responsibility for a few breaths. It was, in its own small way, sacred work. He reached for a crystal mixing glass, its facets catching the ambient lounge light. With smooth, economical movements, he added the necessary ingredients: gin clear as starlight, a whisper of vermouth, the twist that would sharpen the edges just so.

The Denobulan took up a long mixing spoon, its handle delicately curled, and began stirring, not gently, but vigorously, with a controlled precision that spoke of years behind bars from Rigel to Risa. The ice chimed softly against the glass, a muted, rhythmic tink-tink-tink that blended with the low murmur of conversation behind them. Dazl’s expression didn’t shift, but his focus narrowed; he stirred until he felt the ingredients merge, their flavours ‘leaning into one another’ as his first mentor used to say, becoming a singular, silken whole. Satisfied, he reached for a polished strainer and set it atop the mixing glass with a practiced flick.

The pour was elegant: a steady ribbon of crystal-clear liquid cascading into a stemmed martini glass, settling with the slightest shimmer. He finished by expressing the oils from a fresh twist, letting the lemon’s aroma briefly bloom before he placed the curl neatly on the rim. Dazl slid the drink across the bar with quiet ceremony.

Kaaven inhaled the botanical and citrus aromas with ease, pulling the glass closer to him. He turned to Tyler, lifting his glass elegantly towards his lips. “ Long day?” He asked, before taking a thoughtful sip of his Martini.

At Kaaven’s question, Tyler let his head tip toward him, offering a tired but friendly smile. “Long day is a good way to describe it. Shockwaves throwing us around every five minutes, helm yelling at nav, nav yelling right back, and Jet saying absolutely nothing while somehow conveying that everything on the bridge was on fire. I honestly thought I was going to fuse with my console at one point.”

He took another sip and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Feels good to be somewhere that isn’t vibrating under my feet.”

A few minutes later, the doors parted again. Jaylen Young stepped inside, already off-duty and already flapped. Engineering was halfway across the ship, so he had opened his jacket on the walk up. The warm yellow-ochre of the engineering division showed beneath the darker outer layer.

Visually, Jaylen was a different kind of handsome. Taller than most officers in the room, almost impossibly lean, with sharp cheekbones, expressive eyebrows, and neat, intentionally trimmed stubble that gave him a soft-edged, approachable look. His black hair had been pushed back at least a dozen times in the last hour and was settling into a slightly mussed state that looked good without trying. A small gold stud glinted in his left ear as he scanned the lounge.

He looked wired, not worn out. The kind of tired that came from fighting code and diagnostics, not shockwaves. A long shift in Engineering was still clinging to him. He found an open stool a few seats down from Tyler. Not avoiding him; just not knowing him. Jaylen gave Tyler a small nod of acknowledgment before turning toward Dazl. “Something sweet, cold, and definitely not synthale. Dealer’s choice,” he said with a tired smile. He let his shoulders relax for the first time all day as the ambient warmth and chatter of the lounge filled in around him.

"God in heaven please tell me you have cider back there."

The voice, though not overly loud, gave anyone listening the impression of hyperbole. Eugene Fredricks had not counted on just how much there was to do for a shuttle pilot who was effectively the back up of the back up of the back up. Not that he'd thought there would be nothing for him to do so much as he somehow hadn't counted on there being much beyond babysitting shuttles. He wasn't what he would have considered an essential part of the flight team. Secretly he thought one of his Academy profs had just gotten tired of his requests for post recommendations and instead got him sent here.

"Oh, sorry, uh... didn't mean to jump the line, ' he said as belated realization took hold. One hand went to the pile of brown waves on his headed as he threaded his fingers through, ruffling his hair almost absentmindedly. "Eugene Fredricks," he offered , removing hand from hair and offering it to Jalen. "Uh.. pilot. Kind of.." he added. He had emphasized the Eu in his first name with an almost forceful You before the gene.

The Denobulan bartender started on Jalen’s order first. He reached for a strikingly abstract glass, its shape somewhere between a spiral nebula and a melted art sculpture, exactly the sort of thing he adored using for drinks with flair. With practiced ease, he began assembling the components. First came the frozen slush, a pale shimmering violet that moved like crushed crystals rather than ice. Then a liquor the colour of deep fuchsia, rich and fragrant, sliding into the glass in a slow ribbon that curled through the slush like a sunset dipping below a distant horizon. Finally, a bright red liqueur, sharp and sweet, poured in a thin cascading stream that sank, spread, and made the drink look almost alive, layered, swirling, shifting as if lit from within. Dazl leaned in, plucking a piece of fruit from a carved wooden tray. It was something exotic, crescent-shaped and iridescent, a garnish that caught the lounge lights and refracted them in tiny bursts of colour. He nestled it on the rim with ritualistic care.

He straightened, pleased with the tiny work of art he’d created. “Betazoid Twilight,” he announced, sliding the drink toward Jalen with a flourish that was subtle but unmistakably proud. “Cider coming up.” He said, turning to a small under counter refrigerator. He brought out a tall, golden can with a black and purple label. “This is a a Doosodarian Axod Fruit and Gethra Berry cider.” He cracked the can and slid it to Eugene.

Fredricks accepted the can gingerly, inspecting it as if its foreign origins might bely some kind of surprise outside of the ordinary cider-drinking experience. He'd really meant a standard English cider when he'd ordered--something he realized quickly he should have specified. He'd also learned never to question the bartender. It was always better to make a good impression than to come off as a needy snowflake. So he brought the opening of the can to his nose and sniffed.

It smelled like a fruit cider.

"Cheers," he said with a half grin, raising the can to Dazl and then, for extra effect to the officer next to him. And then he took a long sip.

The flavor was a burst of fruit across his tongue accented with a lighter carbonation than the average English cider. It almost tickled his nose the way a good prosecco might. "Well damn," he said, holding the can out in front of him to peer at it curiously, "that could give the English a run for their money."

Jalen accepted the Betazoid Twilight like something delicate, admiring the way the colors shimmered and folded through the glass. He took a sip and his eyes brightened. “This is incredible. If Engineering ever functioned this smoothly, I might actually finish a shift on time.” Another sip, slower this time. “This is going to be dangerous. You give me two of these and I am going to start rewriting the console palette until Jet bans me from the main console room.”

He turned toward Eugene and took the offered handshake, grip warm and easy. “Jalen Young. Systems Engineer. I hope your day was better than mine. I spent the last hour locked in mortal combat with a recursive security process that woke up this morning and decided it would personally ruin me.”

Tyler looked between the others along the bar, from Kaaven’s elegant exhaustion to Eugene’s cider-drunk surprise to Jalen’s wired-engineer energy, and for the first time all day the smile that tugged at his mouth wasn’t tired. It was bright, confident, and just slightly dangerous in that way only a cute, cocksure twenty-something could manage.

“You know, if we are all going to be here recovering from whatever the ship threw at us, we might as well do it together.” His tone was light, but the spark in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t really asking. He slid off his stool in one smooth motion, giving his hair a quick finger-comb that added a little more of that soft 2280s wave. He nodded toward the empty cluster of tables near the windows with the kind of theatrical flourish that suggested he fully expected at least one person to admire the view of him on the way there.

“Come on. Before this place fills up and Dazl decides to start charging extra for bar seating, we should grab a table. Call it the unofficial ‘please let today be over’ club.”

Jalen caught the suggestion and nodded. “Works for me. Talking to actual people instead of corrupted code feels like a step up.”

Tyler flashed the engineer a quick grin, the kind that hit fast and intentional, then gestured for the others to follow. “See? Engineering agrees. And trust me, drinks taste better when you’re not drinking them alone in a straight line.”

His hand swept outward, inviting the little crowd to follow him. Confident. Easy. Maybe even a bit magnetic. He didn’t look back to check if they were coming. He already knew they would.

Kaaven followed, his lithe frame moving with unhurried confidence, a martini glass balanced in his hand with an ease that spoke to long practice. His grip was firm but elegant, fingers resting lightly against the stem as though the glass were an extension of himself rather than something he needed to think about. The clear liquid barely rippled as he walked, the twist of citrus catching the light with each step.

Tyler led the small group to the cluster of tables near the viewport, sliding into a chair with practiced ease. He set his frosted glass down and leaned back, that confident energy still humming beneath the surface even as exhaustion tried to drag him down.

"Alright," he said, sweeping his gaze across the group with a grin that was equal parts charm and mischief, "worst moment of your shift. Go. I'll start—navigation console tried to convince me we were flying through a star for about thirty seconds. Nearly gave Commander Kirak a heart attack. Well, whatever passes for a heart attack in a Vulcan."

Jalen settled into his own seat, cradling the Betazoid Twilight like it was something precious. He huffed a quiet laugh. "Recursive security process that woke up this morning and decided my entire morning belonged to it. I'm pretty sure the computer was personally offended I tried to fix it." He took a sip, then added with a wry smile, "At least your console wasn't actively fighting back."

“The integrated universal translator unit in Sickbay kicked the bucket,” Kaaven said with a long, put-upon sigh as he lowered himself into a seat. The chair creaked softly under his weight as if sympathizing with him. He lifted his martini and took a slow, contemplative sip, savoring it like it was the only thing holding his sanity together. “So I spent most of the day playing interpreter for the Doctor.” He glanced into the glass, watching the liquid settle. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to translate Rigellian manually?” His tone sharpened just a touch, exhaustion bleeding through the humour. “Because I do now. Meanwhile, Counselor Daeval kept trying to ‘assist,’” he added, making subtle air quotes with his free hand, “which somehow made the entire situation exponentially worse.”

Kaaven set the glass down with care, keeping his fingers firmly wrapped around the base as though someone might confiscate it if he let go. “I swear, at one point I was translating, correcting the translation, and then explaining why the correction mattered, while someone was actively bleeding.” He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as his frustration finally found a wry outlet. “Sometimes I really wonder what the senior staff even do,” he muttered. Then, with a crooked half-smile, he added, “Like… is that our future? Do we all eventually get promoted and just become completely inept while pretending it’s ‘leadership’?”

He took another sip, smaller this time, and shook his head. “If that’s the case, I’d like to formally decline advancement. I’ll stay right here. Competent , underappreciated, and fluent in too many languages for my own good.”

Eugene, unlike the others, had been slower on the uptake--not quite grasping that he had been included in the invitation until a half second after the other three were already moving off. He'd done a quick glance around just in case Tyler had been talking to literally anyone else but him and, finding that couldn't have been the case slid from his seat and followed.

"Inventory," he offered when he sidled into the fourth seat at the table. Somehow he managed to make the move look both awkward and intentional -- an impressive feat considering he hadn't planned for either. "I spent my day counting supplies in shuttles that someone else had already counted to make sure they were still there. I swear if I never look at another expiration code on emergency rations again it won't be too soon. Did you know those things can last a decade?" He shook his head, tipping his can to his lips and then following it with his head to throw back a gulp of the fruity cider. "Emergency rations don't taste good in the first place. I can't imagine how they taste after ten years..."

Tyler watched Kaaven settle into his seat, that martini glass looking almost ceremonial in the Haliian's elegant grip. He noticed the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers twitched against the glass despite the confident exterior. Tyler knew that tell - he'd worn it himself plenty of times at the Academy.

"Hey, you did great up there," Tyler said, his tone losing some of its performative edge and becoming genuinely warm. "First away mission to a disaster zone? That's not exactly an easy welcome to the ship." He raised his glass in Kaaven's direction. "To surviving our first real crisis together. May the next one involve significantly less oxygen deprivation and storage containers."

Jalen huffed a laugh and lifted his own colorful drink. "I'll drink to that. Though I'd settle for just one shift where nothing catches fire, explodes, or decides to rewrite its own code out of spite." He glanced at Eugene. "You had the shuttle bay during all that, right? Please tell me at least one part of this ship behaved itself today."

Kaaven lifted his glass to his lips just as the last of Jalen’s words settled into the air. For a beat, he held the sip there, eyes narrowing slightly as if he were giving the idea genuine consideration. Then he snorted, the sound escaping before he could stop it, and broke into an easy laugh.

“I’m not sure Starfleet ships are where I’d look to find everything in working order,” he said, lowering the glass and giving it a gentle swirl. “I mean, on paper? Absolutely. Paradigms of efficiency. In practice?” He tipped his head, lips curling with amusement. “Half the systems are held together by optimism, caffeine, and whatever poor ensign drew the short straw that shift.” He took a proper sip this time, savouring it. “Don’t get me wrong, I love this place. But if Starfleet ever ran perfectly, I’d start worrying something was very, very wrong.”

Eugene watched the exchange with poorly disguised curiosity. Not that he had never sat with others before and kvetched about how many ensigns were required just to keep the lights on. More because he hadn't yet done so with this group. "If by behaving you mean was functionally like watching paint dry, then yes. The shuttle bay behaved." It hadn't been quite that bad. But then Fredricks hadn't joined Starfleet to count shuttle inventory and check dates on emergency rations. He'd joined to fly ships. And the last one he had flown hadn't even made it the whole way to the station. "What's this about an away mission, though?" he asked, lifting his chin in Kaaven's direction.

Kaaven’s composure faltered at the mention of the Away Mission. “Ah… yes. That,” he said, the words landing with more weight than he intended. His Haliian brow knit subtly, a faint crease forming between his eyes as he tried to smooth his reaction into something resembling casual acknowledgment. He took a hurried sip of his martini.

Inside, the old uncertainty stirred again. It was that persistent, uninvited whisper that he had somehow slipped through a selection process meant for someone more capable, more certain, more deserving. He still could not reconcile the decision. There had been officers with stronger records, steadier reputations, clearer confidence. Yet his name had been called.

He shifted his weight, fingers brushing absently against the rim of his glass as though anchoring himself to something tangible. “I’m… still not entirely sure how I ended up on that roster,” he admitted, voice quieter now, edged with reluctant honesty. A small, self-aware smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I suppose I’m still waiting to feel like I belonged there.”

He exhaled slowly, as if releasing the thought before it could take firmer root, and lifted his gaze again, composed, but not entirely convinced.

Tyler was quiet for a beat, turning his glass slowly on the table. "For what it's worth," he said, "nobody who actually belonged somewhere ever had to tell themselves they did." He glanced up, lighter now. "Pretty sure that's just what it feels like."

Jalen nodded once, low, the kind that meant he'd heard more than the words.

Kaaven lifted his glass with a practiced delicacy, bringing it to his lips for a long, measured sip. He let the martini linger on his tongue, savouring it, perhaps longer than necessary, as though the pause might spare him from having to say anything at all.

For someone whose role revolved around communication, he often found himself at a loss when it came to his own feelings. Beneath the composed exterior, there was pride, bright and undeniable, that he’d been selected for the away team. The opportunity felt vast, almost unwieldy in its significance. And yet, threaded through it was that familiar, quieter doubt, the sense of being slightly out of place. An imposter, perhaps. Still, chances like this didn’t come often, not for a lower decker. You took them when they appeared, even if your footing wasn’t entirely sure.

“I can’t wait until we’re all on missions together,” he said at last, the words landing somewhere between earnest and aspirational. He tipped the glass back to finish what remained, then set it down with a soft, decisive clink. “I’ll grab the next round,” he added, a wink flashing toward his comrades, an easy gesture, practiced enough to conceal everything he hadn’t quite managed to say. He pushed himself up. “Ready for a refill?” He asked.

Eugene glanced at his drink. There was still about a third of the beverage to consume, but it felt rude after Kaaven's comments and then offer to grab the next round to decline. He tipped the drink to his lips, swallowing fast to empty the can. He nearly succeeded, too, until the carbonation that he'd thought he had conquered gave him a last kick in the back of the throat and up into his nose making him clamp shut his lips against a cough that threatened to release the last few drops of liquid in a rather unpleasant way. His eyes watered and he raised his can in acknowledgement, offering what he hoped was an appreciative smile before ducking his face into the crook of his elbow in hopes of surreptitiously getting out a cough without offending the assembled others.

Tyler watched Eugene's heroic struggle with the cider and kept his expression admirably neutral. He drained the last of his own glass and set it down. "Yeah," he said, pushing it toward the edge of the table, "I'm ready."

Jalen smiled, settling back in his chair, the last of the Betazoid Twilight still catching the light. "Go on then," he said. "And tell Dazl whatever he made me the first time."

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