Low amber light glowed through the space like a sunset through a smoked glass pane, casting long shadows across the bulkheads. The ceiling projectors painted slow bands of drifting cloud and distant lightning, a quiet atmospheric loop that made the space feel less like a compartment on deck twenty and more like a speakeasy tucked in a storm front. Storm Hall lived up to its name not only in lighting and mood, but in noise. The hum of the ship’s engines filtered through the deck plates, steady and reassuring, Typhoon’s very own thunder.

Midway through gamma shift, the crowd in the lounge was thin. A few off-duty enlisted personnel were clustered near the curved bar. An old Andorian blues track had been coaxed out of the speakers that surrounded them, yet somehow remained out of view.

At one of the largest tables in the lounge, seven junior officers had effectively annexed their own space.

Ensign Lyric Joran had her boots propped on an empty chair, posture relaxed in that distinctly Risian way that made Starfleet uniforms look like resort wear. Her hair was still damp from the sonic showers, loose over one shoulder, and she lazily rotated a glass of something neon and probably illegal by replicator standards.

“Tell me again,” she said, smiling over the rim, “how a routine shuttle inspection turned into a radiation alert and a diplomatic incident.”

Across from her, Ensign Adler groaned.

“It wasn’t a diplomatic incident,” he said. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“That’s what diplomats call incidents,” Maya Alvarez replied dryly.

PADD in hand, because of course she did, thumb still flicking through duty logs even off shift. The glow reflected in her glasses. “You triggered three separate alerts and grounded the main shuttlebay for forty minutes.”

“I bumped a sensor mast,” Adler protested. “Barely.” He said under his breath as he lifted a glass to his lip.

Grenda Vos snorted so loudly that a nearby crewman glanced over in disapproval.

The Tellarite engineer leaned forward, thick fingers wrapped around a mug that smelled aggressively herbal. “You sheared it off, Dave. ‘Barely’ doesn’t leave half a meter of duranium embedded in the deck plating.”

“It was old plating,” Adler muttered. “Probably due for replacement anyway.”

“Because you replaced it,” Vos shot back.

Laughter rippled around the table.

Ensign Kepa Norza, still half in uniform with his jacket unzipped, shook his head. The Bajoran’s earring caught the low light. “Next time you feel the need to redecorate a shuttle bay, give security notice. I had to lock down two corridors because StratOps thought we’d been sabotaged.”

Adler blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Alvarez said without looking up. “I had three crewmen asking if we were under attack.”

Joran raised her glass. “To Ensign David Adler, single-handedly testing Typhoon’s emergency response readiness.”

They all clinked glasses or mugs.

At the end of the table, Siran Tal watched the exchange with a small, bemused smile, chin propped on their hand. Their spots disappeared into the collar of their uniform, sleeves rolled up. A small scanner sat disassembled beside their drink.

“You know,” they said mildly, “from a systems perspective, it was fascinating. The cascade through the internal sensors propagated exactly as the models predicted. Very elegant panic.”

“Elegant,” Zara Asker repeated, incredulous.

The midshipman had a medical kit at her feet; she claimed she felt weird without it. Her hair was still tied back too tightly, like she’d forgotten she was off duty.

“You call thirty people showing up in sickbay with stress headaches elegant?”

Tal tilted their head. “Biological overreaction is also predictable.”

“I’m putting you on decaf,” Asker said.

“That’s just plain cruel.”

Joran leaned back, chair balancing on two legs. “You’re all missing the important part.”

They looked at her.

“We survived another day without getting shot at, assimilated, or reassigned to cargo inventory. That’s a win.”

“Low bar,” Kepa said.

“Realistic bar,” Joran corrected.

For a moment, the table quieted.

Everyone here had seen something they hadn’t quite talked about yet. Typhoon’s missions had a way of doing that, humanitarian on paper, complicated in practice. Evacuations. Border skirmishes. Too many triage tags.

Storm Hall existed for exactly this reason.

Vos broke the silence first, gruff but softer than usual. “Engineering’s running a stress test on the auxiliary reactors tomorrow. If anything explodes, I’m blaming the pilot again.”

Adler pointed at her. “Unfair. I only break things I can reach.”

“That’s… not reassuring,” Alvarez said.

Asker smiled into her drink. “I kind of like this shift.”

“Gamma?” Joran asked.

“Absolutely not,” Asker said. “I meant this. The after. When we can all just… decompress.”

Tal nodded. “Statistically, group cohesion improves survival outcomes.”

Kepa smirked. “Did you just quantify friendship?”

“I quantify everything.”

Joran lifted her glass again. “Then quantify this: next round’s on whoever talks about work next.”

Everyone immediately looked at Alvarez.

Taking the hint, she sighed as she set the PADD face down.

“…Fine. No more work.”

Adler grinned. “Good. Because I was about to tell you what actually happened with that sensor mast—”

Groans erupted.

“Absolutely not,” Vos said.

Kepa lifted a hand and caught the bartender’s eye instead—a Bolian petty officer polishing glasses behind the counter. Two fingers up, then a lazy circle. Another round.

The bartender nodded, already walking towards him.

Overhead, artificial lightning flickered once across the ceiling, soft and distant. Outside the hull, Typhoon sailed on through the dark, carrying them all with it. But in Storm Hall.

For just an hour or two, they were just friends.