The briefing room doors hissed shut behind Bema, but the silence of the corridor didn’t settle him. His fists were balled so tightly his knuckles ached, and his chest felt tight in a way he couldn’t ease. Scott was his captain. His friend. The man he’d trusted trusted his life with in every fight they’d shared. But sending her into the underworld? Out of all the officers on this ship he could have sent into that den of thieves and cutthroats, Scott had chosen her.

In Bema’s mind, that wasn’t tactical brilliance; it was recklessness.

He started walking, long strides pounding against the deck plates through the carpet. The corridor bent and shifted around him, crew moving aside when they saw his expression. He didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge them, his thoughts were too loud, pounding in his head like war drums.

She’s not one of us. She never was. Former Tal Shiar, former Ranger – always “former”, always moving on before someone can get close enough to pin her down. And Scott… Scott can’t see it because he cares for her. Because his judgment is tied up in his feelings.

The anger in him boiled up hotter with each step. By the time he reached the turbolift, his chest ached. He didn’t want to go to his quarters. Didn’t want to stew in silence. “Lounge,” he growled at the computer. Maybe a stiff drink would burn the thoughts out of his skull.

The doors opened, and he stepped into the quiet hum of the lounge. It wasn’t overly crowded, but the sound of soft chatter and clinking glasses surrounded him. He made for the bar with heavy steps, and that’s when he saw Garion. The lieutenant was leaning back in his chair at a corner table, one boot propped up on the chair next to him, a half-finished glass in his hand.

Garion had clocked Bema immediately, his eyes narrowing with the sharp instinct of a man who’d seen too many people walk into a room with too much weight on their shoulders.

“Commander,” he called, not loudly but enough to carry.

Bema hesitated, then drifted towards the table. He hadn’t meant to seek company, but Garion had an anchoring look about him.

“You’re about three shades angrier than normal,” Garion said as he moved his leg so Bema could sink into the chair. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Just needed some air,” Bema said, signalling the bartender for a drink.

Garion raised an eyebrow. “Air, huh? More like steam. As in it’s pouring off you. What’s eating you?”

Bema stared at the tabletop for a long moment. When his drink arrived, he downed it in one, letting the burn ground him without easing his temper, and sent the empty glass back for another round.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Garion said, his eyes narrowing, “What’s got you wound up like this?”

Bema exhaled through his nose, a sharp sound. “Briefing. Meeting. Whatever you wanna call it. Scott’s sending someone into a lion’s den. And not just anyone.”

Garion leaned forward a little. “Who?”

Bema hesitated. His instinct was to keep it sealed – mission details weren’t for loose tongues – but Garion had earned his trust in the same way Scott had. “Dathasa,” he said finally, spitting the name like a curse.

Garion blinked. “The Romulan?”

“The former Tal Shiar,” Bema replied, stabbing his finger into the table. “The one who lived half her life playing double games. Now she’s going undercover into a smuggling ring that’s moving enough firepower to start another war. And Scott’s just fine with it.”

Garion frowned, processing. “That’s… bold.”

“It’s reckless,” Bema snapped. His voice drew looks from nearby tables. He reined himself in with a muttered oath. “Scott’s blind. Can’t see past his feelings for her. He’s sending an unknown variable into enemy territory and trusting she comes back with a neat little package of intel wrapped up in a bow.”

Garion studied him for a moment, then said carefully, “Sounds like you don’t just doubt her, you doubt him.”

Bema bristled. “I don’t doubt him. Not where it counts. He’s my captain. My brother”. His hand curled into a fist. “But he’s too close to this. If she’s still Tal Shiar at heart, if she’s playing him, then everyone on this ship could be compromised.”

Garion let that hang for a moment. Then he tilted his head, voice calm. “You remember Epsilon.”

“How could I forget?” Bema said, flinching slightly at the name.

“She had a chance to let you die down there. Or kill you. But she didn’t. She put herself between you and that monster and nearly died because of it. You think that was an act?”

“Maybe it was instinct,” Bema muttered, staring at the table while the memory swam around his head. “Maybe she couldn’t help herself.”

“Or maybe,” Garion said, leaning back, “It was the truest thing she’s done since she came aboard. You don’t have to like her, Commander, you don’t even have to trust her. But Scott does. And you trust him.”

Bema lifted his gaze, meeting Garion’s steady eyes. There was no judgment there, only the quiet weight of truth.

“You’re worried he’s blinded by her,” Garion went on, “but here’s the thing: he’s been making hard calls long before she showed up. Calls that have saved all our lives. This is just another one. And if it goes sideways…” he shrugged, “Then the rest of us are here to cover his flank.”

For a long moment, Bema didn’t say anything. The fury he had been feeling when he walked in had ebbed, but it had been replaced with the heavy feeling of unease. Finally, he gave a stiff nod. “I’ll back him. I always have, and I always will. But if she betrays him…”

“Then we deal with it together,” Garion said, cutting him off gently, “like we always do.”

A silence settled between them. It wasn’t easy, or comfortable, really, but it was manageable. Bema drained the rest of his drink, the glass hitting the table harder than intended. Garion pushed back his chair. “Get some rest, Commander,” he said, “I doubt this is gonna be easy.”

As he left, Bema remained at the table, staring into the empty glass. His mind kept circling back to the same thought. Scott was his brother, but could he trust this woman? It was going to take faith, and he wasn’t sure he had it in him.

The cabin was dimly lit, and the starlight was cutting silver lines across the viewport. Dathasa knelt beside an open foot locker, sorting through its contents with methodical care. She’d already stripped away every piece of Starfleet tech, and her hands brushed over her collection of worn civilian tools, her twin disruptors, and her old armoured Ranger jacket.

Scott leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his eyes never left her. He’d been silent for more than ten minutes, and that silence felt louder than anything else in the room.

“You’re glaring holes in my back,” Dathasa said, not looking up.

“I’m not glaring,” Scott said. “I’m… memorizing.”

That made her pause. She closed the case and straightened, her green eyes catching his from across the room. “Scott…”

He pushed away from the wall and came closer, until he was standing in front of her. “I keep thinking about how I told Starfleet Command that you weren’t a tool or asset – that they couldn’t treat you that way.” His voice dropped, getting thick with emotion. “And now I’m the one sending you.”

She reached up, brushing her fingers across his jaw, grounding him. “You’re not sending me. I’m choosing to go. Because I know it’s what I’m good at.”

“That doesn’t make it easier to let you walk out the door.”

“I know.” Her thumb traced the corner of his mouth, tender and deliberate. “But if I don’t, more people get hurt. You wouldn’t forgive yourself for letting that happen. And neither would I.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Scott bent his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as if her were trying to memorize her breath, and how warm she felt in his arms. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Just promise you’ll fight to come back. Not for the mission. For me.”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t look away. “I promise.”

He kissed her – slow and lingering, carrying all the words they couldn’t bring themselves to say. When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers again, as if delaying the inevitable by one more moment.

Then she stepped back, and the separation felt like a wound tearing open. “Until the stars burn out,” she said.

“Until the stars burn out,” he replied. Then, without another word, she threw her bag over her shoulder and left.