Cam sat in his quarters, gazing at his PADD, lost in memories of how much simpler life had been just a few weeks ago. It now felt like ages had passed. Cam had just ended a call with his younger brother Ozzy, much quicker than he had anticipated. He had been eagerly looking forward to the conversation, but once he was in it, he couldn’t hang up fast enough.

While most of the enormous Starbase had returned to a semblance of normalcy, one simple question had triggered Cam immensely: “How are you?” Perhaps it was because Cam had spent the past few weeks working with a special task group focused on detecting, isolating, and eliminating Borg infiltrators. However, he still wasn’t entirely sure who the infiltrators were; he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone around him could turn into a drone at any moment.

Throughout the day, Cam had worked closely with Lieutenant Oin’sun, successfully identifying Changeling infiltrators and pinpointing when things had gone awry. However, at night, he found himself plagued by unsettling dreams of melting into a gelatinous blob or having gray skin with technology protruding from it. Sleep often eluded him, as he was either too afraid to close his eyes or lost in contemplation.

Cam’s attention snapped back to his PADD when he noticed that his personal preference profile now listed Raktajino, a potent Klingon caffeinated drink, as his favorite beverage. Cam knew he had to take action to prevent these haunting terrors from taking a toll on him.

Recalling the first meeting he had attended regarding the task group, Cam remembered receiving a friendly nod from a man in a teal-coded uniform after his awkward entrance.

‘Maybe he could help me, if only I could remember his name,’ Cam’s inner monologue urged.

‘Brock Ricefield!’ he suddenly thought. However, a quick check of the station’s manifest yielded no results.

‘Think, Solari, THINK! His name was… It was… Ike Mashfeld!’ Cam’s thoughts raced, reminiscent of a slow dial-up internet connection.

Unfortunately, this too led to a dead end. But Cam’s unyielding determination eventually provided him with another name.

‘Myke… no, no, Ryke, yes, it was Ryke! Now, if only I knew his last name,’ Cam’s inner monologue was interrupted this time, seemingly by a stroke of divine intervention. He heard a voice that filled his ears.

“Ashfield to Solari.”

‘Ryke Ashfield!’ Cam thought as if he had just discovered warp drive.

Cam quickly responded to the communication. “Ensign Solari here. I was just about to contact you, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?” 

Ryke was surprised to get a response so quickly, but didn’t let that show in his voice. Truth to tell, after spending so long counselling and monitoring their target group, the younger members of the team had been on his mind. Not only did they have the weight of this current mission, but they were also victims of the situation as well as sometimes under suspicion from the older members of the fleet who weren’t affected.

Plus he’d noticed Solari’s beverage habits had changed. Not because he’d been prying, but simply because they used the same replicators and he recognised both Solari’s code and the code for Raktajino ahead of his own order a lot of the time. Which could indicate Solari wasn’t sleeping well…

“It’s just a welfare check,” Ryke said smoothly. “Part of my mandate when I’m on any team with a high-pressure mission. “Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

As Cam scrolled through his PADD, he felt the tension in his shoulders gradually ease. The opportunity to share his concerns in a more natural manner seemed like a lifeline.

“I have some openings in my calendar, and my shift won’t start until oh-six-hundred” he began, his voice steady, though a subtle hint of relief danced beneath his words. He couldn’t help but appreciate the chance to avoid directly asking for help; such vulnerability didn’t align with the image of a Starfleet officer he held in his mind.

“Perfect,” Ryke said, making sure to smile so it came over in his voice. It was the delicate balance that counselors had to tread. Looking after people without being too overbearing, getting them to open up and talk… without prying too much and making them clam up. “Well, I’m free right now if you’d like to grab a chat quickly?”

As the moment hung heavy in the air, doubt gnawed at the corners of Cam’s mind. What if strands of Borg DNA truly threaded through his genetic makeup? Or, in a surreal twist, could he be a Changeling sleeper agent, his true nature concealed even from himself?

He hesitated, caught in the tug-of-war between caution and curiosity. “Maybe I shouldn’t poke the bear… No, no, don’t retreat now,” he whispered to himself.

With a composed exterior but a storm of uncertainty within, Cam finally spoke, “Yes, I’d appreciate that. Where should I report?”

Ryke had paused, padd in hand on one side of the corridor. He looked up and around.

“How about the lounge down the corridor from the mission brief area?” he suggested. It was early enough that no one should be around just yet and the lounge was sufficiently large enough that they could find a quiet corner for a chat.

“I know that spot, I’ll rendezvous with you there.” 

A little while later, Cam made his way into the Lounge. There, he noticed Ryke seated at a corner table, his posture exuding a patient anticipation for Cam’s arrival. Cam acknowledged his presence with a subtle nod before heading to the replicator. 

“Raktajino, hot,” Cam instructed the machine, and it promptly complied, delivering the steaming beverage into his awaiting hand. He carried the drink gingerly, as if handling a fragile artifact, wary of any potential spills. 

Taking his seat across from Ryke, Cam couldn’t ignore the palpable tension he exuded. Seeking to break the ice, he decided to interject with humor. 

“You know, I swear these contraptions are in cahoots to give me an ulcer one day,” he quipped, gesturing toward the cup of aromatic Raktajino with a nervous smile.

Ryke pushed a plate of pastries toward Cam. It was a trick he used a lot. It was hard to eat and be nervous at the same time… something about the body’s autonomic functions when it came to the fight or flight reaction.

“That stuff is definitely ‘no sleep for a week’,” he grinned, and lifted his own in a small salute.

“So, how are things going?” he asked, settling back in his chair and blowing the steam off the top of his mug. His whole manner and bearing was that of just two officers having a catch up before shift, nothing heavy or formal. He’d found it was the best approach with other men, allowing them to talk and ask for help if they needed it without asking for help.

‘How are things going?’ Cam mused inwardly, grappling with the very question that had been gnawing at him. When it came time to voice his inner turmoil, he could only do so in the manner that felt most genuine—honestly.

“I… I’m not entirely sure,” he stammered, his vocalization reflecting the struggle within. Cam, nurtured in an idyllic and sheltered upbringing, boasted a repertoire of knowledge encompassing various skills – from impeccable manners to the art of piloting vintage aircraft and mastering martial arts. Yet, when it came to navigating the treacherous terrain of overwhelming negative emotions, he felt like a novice lost in the dark.

“To be completely honest, I’m… I’m frightened,” he admitted, his stammer persisting as he attempted to articulate the depths of his unease.

“That’s perfectly understandable,” Ryke said, his voice low and reassuring. “A lot has happened in a very short space of time. There’s been a lot of high stress situations. Given your age and your demographic, I’d be a little worried and ordering checks if you weren’t a little scared.”

He leaned back in his chair, taking another sip from his mug. “Is there anything specific that concerns you?”

Cam’s body language spoke volumes about his newfound ease with Ryke. He leaned back, his shoulders relaxed, and his concerned brow lifted as he contemplated his next words.

His fingers traced the rim of his Raktajino cup, tracing the circle over and over again as his gaze dropped. He seemed lost in thought, and then, as if gathering courage, he looked up and spoke in a hushed tone. 

“You know,” he began, his voice tinged with vulnerability, “sometimes I can’t help but fear that I might turn into a Borg drone or become some hidden Changeling agent. It’s this nagging fear that I might unintentionally hurt the people I cherish the most, and I’d be powerless to stop it. It’s like I’ve lost control, and yet, here I am.”

Ryke nodded, a low sound of understanding in the back of his throat.

“Again, that’s perfectly understandable. Most beings fear hurting loved ones as much as the loss of self… as with assimilation,” he said, keeping his voice low and measured to help ease the tension running through the young ensign’s frame. “On that score, we can fight the fear with science. The borg were stopped and we’ll shortly have this whole removal business underway, so even if you do have the genetic changes, they will be removed soon.”

He offered a smile. “And there are protocols in place, Cam. More missions and programs like ours, making sure we all stay safe.”

He couldn’t have told you what they were, they were all compartmentalised for security, but he knew they were happening. One from common sense and an understanding of how Starfleet worked, and two, because he’d seen groups like theirs gathering, crew and personnel outside their normal areas. For a man used to looking for changes in patterns that would indicate problems, it was obvious.

“And for your worry about being a secret changeling infiltrator,” Ryke grinned and took a pastry for himself, offering them to Cam again. “You agreed to meet me in a public place rather than trying to get me alone so you could… do whatever it is changelings do,” he glossed over the facts quickly. “So no, I’m not worried you’re a changeling. Besides, there is a saying that if you worry about insanity, you’re no doubt sane… I’m sure the same is true of being a secret changeling.”

Upon hearing those words Cam let it sink in for a few seconds, his chest expanded with each deep breath he took, and a smile slowly crept across his face. The tension that had coiled within him for so long seemed to evaporate, and he sat there, shoulders no longer weighed down, radiating a newfound sense of lightness and relief.

As Cam glanced around, his eyes flickered with a mix of unease and his newfound relief. “You know,” he began, his words cautious, “with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff surrounding the project and those lingering suspicions, I guess I found myself needing someone to share my thoughts with.”

Cam’s eyes locked onto Ryke, his gaze lingering on the pastries displayed on the table. Their golden crusts glistened with a tempting allure, and he couldn’t resist the urge to indulge. He reached out for one pastry, his fingers trembling with anticipation, and then, without hesitation, he grabbed another. The aroma wafted up to his nose, so inviting that it felt as though he hadn’t savored a proper meal in days.

His mouth was still partially stuffed with the delectable treat, and he fought to communicate, producing a comical, “Tpfabnk PhyOu.” 

Tiny crumbs of pastry escaped, creating a miniature blizzard on the tabletop, and Cam hastily swallowed, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Through a sheepish smile and a grateful glance, he finally managed to speak, “Thank you, Lieutenant Ashfield. I guess… I just needed to hear that.” 

The relief in his eyes was evermore palpable as if those words had been the missing ingredient in a long-forgotten recipe of comfort.

Ryke inclined his head with a smile. “You’re more than welcome, and it’s Ryke,” he added. “I don’t stand on ceremony. And I do like my coffee in a morning. If you ever need a chat, you’re always welcome to drop me a message or come find me.” 

He waved his mug to indicate the lounge. “This place does a decent, non-pastry breakfast. Unfortunately, duty calls I’m afraid… for both of us.”