#xindi attack

Archer frowns slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting anyone to ask that, which would be laughable if Hayes was the sort of man who laughed. The security team are loyal to Reed first and the Captain second, as much as both Reed and Rogers would disagree with that. 

“He is refusing to follow orders and actively going against the safety of this mission.”

The statement is greeted by a stunned silence. The security team are looking at each other, exchanging glances which clearly suggest that they don’t really believe that.

Rogers doesn’t stammer, but only because that impulse was probably trained out of her. “He… disobeyed direct orders?”

“Are you questioning my reasoning, Ensign?” 

Some of the fleeters have said that the Captain used to be a calm, chilled out man who hadn’t really cared about the regulations and often let insubordination slide, but Hayes has never seen him as anything other than this hard, harsh man and struggles to imagine that. 

“No, sir.” Rogers replies, quite quickly. “That’s just,” she pauses, “out of character for Lieutenant Reed.”

Archer relaxes slightly, smiles a little sympathetically. “I know. I was surprised too.” He glances around at the gathered group. “I am assigning oversight of the security team and the MACO contingent to Major Hayes.” 

The hands Rogers has linked behind her back both ball into fists, tight and tense, before she forces them to relax. “Yes, sir.” 

He nods. “I hope you understand Ensign, this is an important mission, and I can’t have people questioning me at every turn.”

Which, even Hayes has to admit, is a description of someone who is not Malcolm Reed. Reed has snapped at Rogers in the past for questioning the Captain’s order when the Captain isn’t even there, disagreeing to his face or questioning him at every turn are not things he can really envisage Reed doing. 

Rogers just nods, apparently not trusting herself to say anything and stays there, one tense line, as the Captain glances around the rest of the room, nods at Hayes and leaves. The room remains silent for, and he counts, a solid two minutes, until one of the Petty Officers steps up and puts a hand on Rogers’ arm. 

“Emma, what the hell? That’s not just out of character for him, that’s incredibly unlike him!” 

Rogers shakes him off. “Go back to your duties.”

The rest of the team gape at her, out of the corner of his eye Hayes can even see some of his team giving her a weird look. 

“What?”

She turns and levels the man with a glacial look. “Go back. To your duties.”

Most of the team slowly start to drift away, not without shooting glances back at her though, like they’re expecting her to change her mind. 

“There could be something wrong with him.” The same guy insists. 

“Foster.” She warns. 

He relents, holding his hands up. “Just, this is weird.”

“I will speak to Doctor Phlox.” 

Foster nods, sighing, and follows the rest of the team back to whatever he was doing. Most of the MACOs have also dispersed when Hayes glances back, just McKenzie and Kemper hovering; they need to discuss the new command structure if Hayes is now in charge of both teams, but the way that the tension remains in Rogers’ body makes him unwilling to start that with her. As if she can hear him thinking about her, she turns to him.

“I would like to speak to Phlox about the Lieutenant’s condition. Sir.” 

It hadn’t actually occurred to him that she would now need permission to leave the room, from what he’s seen, Reed doesn’t seem to enforce that in any way, generally only wanting to know where someone is going and insisting on them moving in pairs. 

“I’ll come with you, Ensign.” He replies, ignoring the automatic frown that crosses her face. “McKenzie, keep everyone on task while we’re gone.”

“Gotcha.” 

Rogers walks out without waiting for him to catch up and he has to jog slightly to walk next to her. 

Rogers walks quickly, clipped strides that force Hayes to lengthen his own. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t slow, just leads him down the corridor toward Sickbay like this is a task she’s already rehearsed in her head.

The doors slide open to a wash of soft light and antiseptic air. Sickbay is calm the hum of biobeds steady, orderly, oblivious to whatever fracture has opened elsewhere on the ship.

Phlox looks up from a console as they enter, his smile already forming.

“Ah! Ensign Rogers, Major Hayes—” He stops. The smile fades, replaced by something sharper and far more focused. “What can I do for you?”

Rogers stops just inside the threshold, hands clasped behind her back. Her voice, when she speaks, is steady to the point of strain. “Lieutenant Reed has been confined to his quarters.”

Phlox blinks.

It’s a small thing, but it’s enough to set Hayes’ nerves jangling.

“I see,” Phlox says slowly. “And may I ask the reason for this confinement?”

Hayes answers, because Rogers doesn’t. “He was deemed unfit for duty. For disobeying orders.”

Phlox’s brow furrows. “Unfit… how?”

There’s a beat of silence that stretches just a little too long.

“I have not examined Lieutenant Reed today,” Phlox continues, his tone now entirely professional. “Nor have I received any notification of medical concerns.” His eyes shift to Rogers. “Was he injured during the boarding?”

Hayes doesn’t think he was, but Rogers responds immediately. 

“Yes,” she says. “He was struck.”

Phlox straightens fully, already tapping commands into the console beside him. “Then I should very much like to see him. Even mild cranial trauma can cause impaired judgment, emotional volatility, confusion—”

“He hasn’t been cleared for visitors,” Hayes cuts in, hating how automatic the words feel.

Phlox’s hands still.

He looks at Hayes now, expression uncommonly grave, enough that Hayes feels a faint chill run down his spine.

“Major,” Phlox says gently, “confining an officer without medical evaluation following a head injury is… inadvisable.”

“I’ll inform the Captain,” Hayes replies, because that is what he knows how to do.

Phlox studies him for a moment longer, then inclines his head. “Please do. In the meantime, I will review Lieutenant Reed’s medical file and be prepared to examine him the moment I am permitted.”

He hesitates, then adds quietly, “For what it’s worth... this behaviour does not align with Lieutenant Reed’s psychological profile.”

They leave Sickbay in silence.

The corridor outside feels narrower, the lights harsher. Rogers’ posture is rigid now, spine straight as a blade, every movement precise. Too precise.

“I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Reed. Sir.” 

“Rogers,” he sighs, bringing the two of them to a stop, “you don’t need to do that.”

She blinks at him, suspicion still hiding behind her eyes. 

“You don’t need to ask me for permission to do things, alright? Especially not stuff you wouldn’t ask Reed.”

She doesn’t speak, but her shoulders relax slightly. 

“I trust you,” he continues. “I know the captain just put me in charge, but you’ve been running this longer than I’ve been here.”

He expects that to relax her further but she just looks away, won’t meet his eyes. 

“Alright.” She replies, quiet. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Just… keep me in the loop, OK?”

She doesn’t get a chance to respond; Archer’s voice comes over the comms, instructing him to report to the ready room. 

“You’d better go. Don’t need anyone else suspended.” 

Hayes thinks she’d intended that to be a joke, but it comes out flat. Unamused. 

Archer is standing at the window when he enters, hands clasped behind his back, and Hayes remains silent, waiting for the other man to speak. 

“There's nothing more important than the success of this mission. Do you agree, Major?”

It’s an unexpected opening. 

“Of course, sir.”

“My senior officers don't seem to understand what I'm trying to do here.” He finally turns away from the stars, to look at Hayes with sharp, searching eyes. “I guess I have myself to blame. In the past, I've encouraged them to ask questions, but we don't have time for that now. I need officers who respect the chain of command and can follow orders.”

It had been the one thing Hayes had noticed as soon as he’d come aboard – the Captain’s willingness to listen to his crew. He’s unlike any commanding officer Hayes had ever reported to before, and there’s something almost like relief that settles over him at Archer’s acknowledgement of the situation. 

“That won’t be a problem, sir.”

“I thought what happened with T'Pol might have been an isolated incident, but I'm not so sure now.” 

They’re both thinking of Reed – Hayes still doesn’t know what the order he questioned was. 

“Malcolm destroyed a ship that could have helped us.” The captain pauses for a moment, shaking his head, and then, to himself more than to Hayes, adds, “I'm starting to wonder if he deliberately tried to sabotage this mission.”

Hayes has nothing to say to that. It seems so unlike the Reed he’d slowly gotten to know, but… the evidence is there. 

Archer pauses, one hand on the panel to leave, and then turns back. “I have some concerns about Lieutenant Reed’s team.”

“The security team?”

“Yes.” He turns back around, looking at Hayes fully. “I want your opinion on the matter – if it came down to it, if they were forced to choose between following my orders and following his, what would they do?”

It’s a loaded question. It’s a question that could see the entire security team suspended from duty if he answers wrong, and as much as Hayes knows that they’d follow Reed without question, he doesn’t have enough people to defend the ship alone. 

“They respect the chain of command, sir. They’re soldiers at heart.”

Archer nods, slowly. “Good. Good. You're in command while I'm on the surface. You answer to me, and me alone. Is that understood, Major?” 

“Perfectly, sir.”

“That’ll be all.” 

He steps out onto the bridge, feeling Archer’s eyes on his back, and the remaining bridge crew’s on his front. It feels a lot like being pinned between two rock faces. 

He goes down to security before he takes over, explains the situation to Rogers, leaves command of security to her while he’s on the bridge. 

Rogers looks at him for a long moment. There’s nothing on her face to tell him how she’s feeling. 

“And, you’re going to do that?”

Hayes frowns, feels himself frown. “It was a direct order from the captain. Of course I’m going to do it.”

He can see her hesitating. 

“Ensign, if you can’t respect and obey the command structure, then…”

“Then what? You’ll confine me to quarters as well? Fully take over his job?”

He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming. “I do not want to take over Reed’s job. But if both of you are incapable…”

She raises an eyebrow. “We’re capable of finishing our sentences, at least.” And she turns on her heel and walks away without waiting for his response, leaving Hayes trying to form words in her wake. 

Hayes doesn’t spend much time on the bridge, all things considered. It’s not his job, and he’s honestly not interested in learning it. 

He doesn’t miss the way Ensigns Mayweather and Sato keep glancing at each other and then at him, movements a little too synchronized, like clockwork dolls. But they’re doing their jobs. They aren’t interfering. So he lets it slide.

The doors hiss open.

Security spills onto the bridge in a tight, disciplined line – and something cold settles in his gut.

Maybe he’d been wrong to reassure the Captain. Maybe he’d mistaken restraint for obedience.

Maybe he should have let them all be confined to quarters.

He stands, reaching for his weapon, but Reed is faster, and Reed was prepared. 

“Stand down!”

Behind him, Rogers meets his eye, momentarily, before she looks away again. He can’t decide if she’s sorry or not. 

“You intend to shoot me, Lieutenant?”

The MACOs on the bridge are uncertain, uncomfortable; they know Hayes is their commanding officer, but they’ve spent months now following Reed. 

Reed’s mouth pinches, unhappy. “Tell them to stand down.” It’s less of an order, more of a request – please don’t turn this into a firefight. 

“The Captain relieved you of duty.” Hayes says, because it’s the only thing he can hold onto. An order was given. “Both of you.” 

The Subcommander is unmoved. “We don't want anyone injured. Put down your weapons.”

Hayes exhales, careful and slow. “Until the Captain says otherwise, I give the orders on this Bridge.”

The security team haven’t moved out of formation – a formation that the MACOs taught them. Under any other circumstances he’d be proud, and maybe Reed can see that because he tilts his head slightly, a little, sardonic smile crossing his face. 

But Reed follows orders. If he can just get an order… 

“Contact the Captain.”

He’s not expecting to be overruled immediately. 

“Belay that.”

Surprise must show, briefly in his face, because both MACOs wince. 

“I gave you a direct order, Ensign.” He keeps his eyes on Reed and T’Pol, on the security team behind them, but turns his head just enough to see Hoshi take her hands off the console and settle them in her lap. 

“I'm sorry, Major.”

The Captain. He needs to get through to the Captain. If Archer can just explain himself, the chain of command will make sense again. He’s backing towards the comm. station before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing, keeping eye contact with Reed. 

Behind Reed, the security team readjust, focusing on Hayes himself as the main threat, even as Reed drops his phase pistol, letting it point at the floor instead. It’s a move that sends off red alerts in Hayes’ brain, but he’s still not prepared for the attack to come from behind. 

Mayweather. 

He’d taken his eyes off the other Ensign – classified him as non-combatant. The fact that it’s Mayweather’s body covering him when he hits the floor suggests that might have been a mistake as well; he’s made a lot of those today. 

Above them, he hears the sound of phase pistol fire, three bodies hitting the deck, and when he’s pulled to his feet, he sees both his MACOs on the floor. Mayweather had grabbed Hayes’ weapon as well, leaving him unarmed in a room full of armed people. 

“It’s over, Major.” 

When he turns, Reed has a pistol to his head; eyes and voice oddly soft for the situation. 

And then, to Mayweather. “Take him to his quarters.”

Hayes only briefly hears the response, only registers the order as Travis gently pokes his arm to get him to move. He’s too focused on Reed and the expression on his face; not anger. Not antipathy. 

“I am sorry about this.” Travis says, as they walk through the ship. “But it’s really the best move at this point.”

He doesn’t get a response.

It’s only after he’s been let into his own quarters and left alone that he identifies Reed’s look: understanding. And sympathy. 

*

Later, Hayes finds himself in Sickbay. He’s supposed to be here, he reminds himself, had been summoned by the Subcommander; but Tucker and Reed are already there, waiting by one of the biobeds, and he feels utterly surplus to requirement. 

The Captain isn’t there. 

“Where is he?” The words come out clipped, military, a demand more than a question, and he winces internally. 

Phlox seems distinctly unbothered by his tone. “In his quarters, resting.” 

He nods, glances up at the other three. Tucker gives him a smile that’s more of a grimace. 

“Do you recall when the Captain was attacked by one of the eggs?”

Thankful for the distraction, Hayes turns his attention back to the doctor. “It sprayed something in his face.” 

Phlox nods, “I thought it was a defence reflex,” he continues to speak, something about neurochemicals and imprinting, but Hayes finds his gaze focusing on Reed. 

Still, he’s paying enough attention to respond when Phlox finishes. 

“Are you saying he thought he was the mother of those things?” 

Phlox smiles faintly. “More accurately, a caretaker. The Captain did not perceive this consciously, of course. But over time he became obsessed with protecting the eggs – to the exclusion of everything else.”

“Including,” the subcommander adds, “our mission.” 

It probably isn’t intended as a reprimand, but Hayes feels it hit him in the chest – he’d followed those orders. He’d also put the mission at risk. 

He exhales carefully, feels the four sets of eyes watching him. Space is weird. Space is nothing like any combat environment he’s trained for. He’s starting to realise that the rules that kept him alive on Earth don’t necessarily apply out here – and worse, that rigidly clinging to them might be dangerous.

“I’d like to speak with him, if you don’t mind.” 

Phlox pauses to glance at the other three, but receiving no objections nods. “He’ll be awake in a few hours. He should be fully recovered by then.” 

He nods, unable to say anything else – except “yes ma’am” on autopilot when T’Pol instructs him to return his men to duty – and watches her leave with Tucker. Not for the first time, he absently notes how close they stand to each other. 

Movement by his elbow takes his attention. It’s Reed, standing at his side and looking up into his face instead of after the other two members of his crew. 

He doesn’t say anything, and the silence feels deliberate, pushing Hayes to speak first. It’s odd – he’d never noticed how hypnotising Reed’s eyes were before. 

“Not exactly the sort of thing they trained us for at West Point,” Hayes says at last.

“I imagine not.” There’s a hint of amusement in Reed’s tone. 

Still, the betrayal stings. “You could have come to me, explained the situation.”

That finally makes Reed look away. “We couldn't take the chance that you'd side with the Captain.”

“I probably would have.” 

The admission comes easy now. He thinks of Rogers, the way she’d looked at him – not disgust, not even confusion, and finally places the expression on her face: bitter understanding. 

“Yeah.”

They lapse into silence again and Hayes expects Reed to say something else, to make some sort of excuse and leave, but despite everything, Reed seems oddly willing to stay with him – the paranoid part of Hayes’ brain suggests that he’s going to try something, that he’s waiting for Hayes to let his guard down, but… what would be the point, now? If they were truly having a competition, Reed has won. 

“The armoury?” 

It’s an open invitation. “I should check on my men.”

“They’re in the armoury.”

Hayes can’t stop himself frowning – they’d been relieved of duty. 

Reed smiles, just slightly, at the expression on his face. “Emma is of the opinion that they should still be training.”

“The armoury then, sir.” 

“Look, we’re sorry we didn’t invite you to our mutiny!” It’s Romeo, he recognises the way her natural accent breaks through the Starfleet standard when she gets irritated. 

“It’s not about the mutiny!” One of the MACO snaps back. He can’t quite recognise them all by voice alone yet. 

“Really? ‘Cause it sure feels like it’s about the mutiny.”

For a moment he considers just turning around, walking away, and coming back later when it’s either blown over, or he’s been called because it turned into a brawl. 

Reed’s face suggests he’s having much the same thoughts, but he takes a breath in, walks through the door with an incredible level of confidence. With nothing else to do, Hayes follows him. 

Glancing around, Hayes sees Rogers against a back wall, watching, not doing anything. She meets his eyes briefly, before her gaze turns to focus on Reed. 

“Alright!” 

The room falls silent, even the MACOs responding to Reed’s yell. 

“It has not been an easy few days.”

A few murmurs cross the room at that. Hayes is struck with the unusual urge to laugh – that is an understatement if he ever heard one. 

“And we all made choices that we cannot take back.” 

It’s magnanimous of Reed to say that, when he had made what was unmistakably the correct choice. 

“It was my choice to keep the MACOs in the dark.” He pauses to glance at Hayes. “It was not an easy decision to make, but it was the one that I made.” 

They all watch him exhale slowly. 

“I can’t take that back,” he continues, “but I can admit that I underestimated what it would cost.”

“I won’t pretend that what we did was clean, or comfortable, or fair. But it was necessary. And I will stand by that.”

Silence stretches. Not tense now. Listening.

“That said,” Reed adds, and there’s something different in his tone — quieter, more human, “this ship doesn’t function if half the people on it feel shut out when things go bad.”

His gaze finally flicks to the MACOs, lingering there.

“You were excluded. That wasn’t about distrust. It was about time, fear, and the limits of my own judgment.”

He nods once, decisive.

“If we’re going to keep going — and we are going to keep going — then that can’t happen again.”

A pause.

“We don’t have to like each other. But we do have to trust that when someone acts, they’re doing it to keep this ship and its crew alive.”

His eyes meet Hayes’ at last.

“That includes knowing when to follow orders,” Reed says evenly, “and when to question them.”

Rogers shifts against the wall, arms unfolding.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Reed finishes. “I’m asking for honesty, and for cooperation. From all of us.”

Another breath. Then, clipped and familiar: “Drills.”

Rogers and McKenzie react immediately, moving through the group, corralling them into pairs – even if their attempts at cross-group pairs are rejected – and Reed steps back to stand next to Hayes. 

“This isn’t going to be easy.” 

“I followed the rules,” Hayes says quietly. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“I know.” There’s a pause from his side, the sound of Reed sighing. “If I was in your position, I probably would have done the same. It wasn’t an easy situation.” 

He nods, slowly, watching the careful divide that has remerged between the two groups, as much as Rogers and McKenzie are trying to cross it. 

“Thank you, sir.”

Reed nods, once. “We’ll invite you to the next mutiny.”

Hayes feels his head snap around, fast enough to send a bolt of pain up his neck, the panic only subsiding when he sees the faint smile on Reed’s face. 

It’s a joke. Reed is joking with him. For a moment he just blinks at the other man, aware, in the deep recesses of his mind that he should say something back. 

“We’ll invite you if we start one as well.” 

A hand squeezes his knee briefly as she settles, cross-legged. “Before this mission, I didn’t really think he was even capable of being angry.”

“Well.”

She nudges the plate slightly closer to him, and he takes the hint. It’s just a cheese sandwich, cold and the bread’s a little stale, probably straight out of the freezer, but as he chews, it occurs to him that she was the second person to ever bring him food. The only other time had been Hoshi and the pineapple cake, the memory of which still makes him smile.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” It comes out a little thick around the bread and the emotion.

Rogers shrugs, silently reaching over to pull the tangled cables closer to herself.

“No, Emma.” He places his hand over hers and waits until she meets his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re alright.” She smiles, briefly. “Besides, it’s probably not me you should be apologising to.”

The memory of Hayes’ face – battered and bruised by his own fist – swims through his mind and he winces. “Yeah.”

The careful movements of her hands through the cables, and the slow fading of a hunger he hadn’t realised was there, steady him.

“I suppose the fallout has already become apparent?”

Rogers shifts to bring one knee up to her chest, leaning her chin on it thoughtfully as he fingers continue to soothe the knots out. “Hm. The MACOs don’t really want to be around us, but that’s not exactly new, so…”

“You were starting to get along.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I guess.”

“That’s… reversed? For all of you?”

“Yeah. I think they kind of hold us responsible for… you.”

Another deep pit of guilt threatened to overwhelm him. “Because my behaviour reflects badly on all of you.” He sighs again, ignoring the pain in his ribs. “God, I’m sorry, I should have thought—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not!” He threw his hands up. “I might as well actively be compromising this mission, it’s no wonder the captain…”

He trails off, feeling her eyes on the side of his face, and they both sit in silence for a moment before she speaks, saving him from having to finish the sentence.

“I don’t think you need to beat yourself up as well.” 

What would the end of that sentence even have been? No wonder the captain brought the MACOs aboard? No wonder Hayes is trying to replace him?

“Is that, I don’t need to beat myself up because someone else has already done it for me, or I don’t need to add to the general violence?”

She hums. “Both. It’s a versatile statement like that.”

The smile hurts his already split lip and tugs at the bruises on his cheekbone. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” She knocks their shoulders together lightly.

“I need to fix this.”

“Uh uh. We. We need to fix this. We’re a team, remember?”

“Emma.”

A frown crosses her face, ever so briefly. “Don’t. We’re a team. We fix things together.”

“OK. OK, we’re a team. What does the team think?”

“I haven’t asked.”

The snort of laughter he lets out this time is amused. “Alright.”

“But we’ll, uh… what’s the word? Brain…clouds?”

“Brainstorm.” He’s the one to knock their shoulders together this time. “The word’s brainstorm.”

In a fit of an emotion he can’t quite name, he slings an arm around her shoulder and pulls her into him. He’s not expecting her to drop the cables and wrap both of hers around him, but he relaxes into it.

“We can fix this.”

“We can fix it,” he echoes, and takes up some of the cables, leaving the rest for her. “Who used these last, by the way? This is an unacceptable state to leave them in.”

Rogers tenses slightly, only noticeable by the way their shoulders are pressed together and it gives him the answer he needs before she speaks.

“The MACOs.” 

“I’ll speak to McKenzie,” she promises, “make sure they all know how to look after the equipment.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now eat your apple.”

*

The chime at his door was not unexpected. Word tended to travel fast in a closed community and the Enterprise was no different – Hayes expected that everyone on the ship had heard about his brawl with Reed by this point.

“Enter.”

Behind him, the door swishes, open and closed, allowing another presence into the room. He knew who it was; there was really only one person who would bother him in his quarters. The rest of the MACOs were aware he needed time to himself.

He tugs a shirt over his head, hurriedly, but not quite fast enough to prevent McKenzie from seeing the bruises and whistling lowly at the sight.

“Jesus, you look awful.”

He grits his teeth, ignoring the way it tugs on his recently-fixed cheekbone. “I’m pretty sure insulting a senior officer is counted as insubordination, Corporal.”

She’s leaning against the bulkhead when he turns to face her, both eyebrows raised.  “I mean, I was gonna say that I’m pretty sure that beating the crap out of a senior officer is grounds for much more than that, but from where I’m standing it looks like he gave as good as he got.” 

“Did you actually want something or are you just here to mock me?”

She shrugs, moving further into the room to fiddle with some of the things on his shelves. “Came to see how you are. Also to tell you that you don’t have to do the self-imposed isolation if you don’t want. Reed’s hiding so you’re unlikely to bump into him.”

“Thanks.”

She pauses by a photo of him as child, his mother’s arms around him and smiles on both their faces. “Honestly, Jay, what were you thinking?”

“If I say he started it, will you hit me?”

“Yes.” She isn’t laughing.

“I don’t know.” He slams the cupboard shut. “Honestly, I just… I don’t know.”

She sighs again, gentle. “You’ve opened some of those cuts up again. C’mon.”

*

The corridors on the Enterprise all look the same, especially at this time when there are very few people about, and yet Malcolm knows the moment he steps into the area they’ve subconsciously labelled as the MACOs’. Nothing changes visibly, but he knows.

Something in him wants to turn back, to avoid this area of the ship entirely, but he’d agreed, promised the captain that he would make an effort. And part of that had to include using those areas of the ship he had previously deemed “off limits.”

It’s as dim here as anywhere else, the ship’s lights dimmed for the night cycle, and he doesn’t expect to see anyone, but voices drift from an open doorway as he approaches. Voices that he recognises immediately.

Hayes.

And McKenzie.

They should be asleep – although Malcolm is self-aware enough to admit that thought is hypocritical – not sat in the small room that they must have made their ‘common area’.

He pauses, just out of sight of the doorway, using the shadows to hide him.

“Hold still,” McKenzie says, somewhere between exasperated and fond.

“I am holding still,” Hayes replies, annoyed in that dignified way he manages even when he’s exhausted.

“You’re holding still like Mayweather’s version of holding the ship still.”

The phrase makes Malcolm smile despite himself. Somehow, McKenzie seems to have picked up on some of the jokes the security team bat between them.

“Jay, tilt your goddamn head.”

He steps a little closer – not spying, he tells himself, just… observing.

Hayes is perched on a table, McKenzie stood between his legs, fingers lightly probing a bruise Malcolm had left on his cheekbone, a damp cloth in her other hand.

As he watches, Hayes endures it with the stoicism of a man facing enemy fire, jaw tight, eyes forward, and yet there’s something soft in the corner of his eyes.

“Should have dragged you back to sickbay,” she mutters, “injuries reopening and you were just gonna, what? Sleep it off?”

“Didn’t seem worth it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” She presses fingers against the cut on his forehead; he flinches. “Stop acting like you’re made of… hull plating or something.”

Hayes huffs and it’s almost a laugh.

Nearly.

“I’m gonna fix this.”

“We’re gonna fix this.” McKenzie corrects.

“Kenz, this is my problem.”

“Uh huh. And we’re your team. So.”

He sighs, batting her hand away. “Careful with that, you’re gonna start sounding like Reed’s fanatics.”

“Can I suggest that fixing this might start with being nicer to the security team? Anyway, it’s kind of sweet, don’t you think?”

He hops off the table. “You’re the one that said it was creepy.”

“I know, but… they care about him so much, it’s…”

“Sweet?”

“Yeah.” She chucks the cloth off into the corner somewhere, Malcolm can’t quite see from his hidden vantage point.

“I can fix this.”

Unaware that they’re being watched, McKenzie’s voice softens. “Jay… you don’t have to take everything on yourself.”

Something in Hayes’ posture shifts. Not much, just a fraction. But Malcolm sees it, sees the way he almost leans into her – trust. Familiarity.

She’s giving him a space to be human.

McKenzie is Hayes’ Rogers.

He watches as she nudges his shoulder, gentle but firm, and Hayes finally lets his spine ease a little. Lets himself be cared for. They argue a bit more – quiet and comfortable – and she leaves him with a final squeeze to his arm and an order to rest, sir, or so help me.

Malcolm doesn’t have time to hide; he’s visible when Hayes steps into the hall.

For a heartbeat, neither of them speak.

Hayes straightens instantly, falling back into command posture. “Lieutenant.”

“Major.” Malcolm nods, crisp, impersonal. He wants to say something else, but the words seem to crumble before they can materialize. “Goodnight.”

Hayes tilts his head, softer than Malcolm expects. “Goodnight.” And moves past him, heading towards his quarters.

Behind him, McKenzie’s voice echoes faintly behind him: “I mean it, Jay. Don’t make me drag you back to sickbay.”

Reed turns his head just enough to see Hayes’ ears flush slightly red. He’s about to continue his wander of the halls when Hayes speaks again.

“You should too.”

“What?”

“Rest. You should rest too. Sir.”

He hesitates, just briefly, and Hayes gestures down the corridor – of course, Malcolm remembers, his quarters are in the same place as the security team.

“Alright.”

They walk side by side. Quiet. It’s not forgiveness, not camaraderie, but understanding.

And When Hayes leaves him at his door, the room feels suddenly lonelier.

He pretends not to notice.

*

Something has settled in the air by the next morning – for the two security teams, at least, Malcolm is still receiving slightly scared looks from the rest of the crew when he passes them, and he retreats to the armoury.

Rogers is in there, McKenzie too, and a small grouping of both teams. They’re not quite interacting, but they’re not avoiding each other either, and he gets greetings from both sides when he enters.

He smiles, even as it pulls on the injuries, and starts the diagnostics on the firing relays – with everything that’s happened recently, these small checks have fallen to the wayside.

By the time he’s finished, the armoury is silent again; the crew having slowly trickled out over the course of a few hours. Rogers had pressed a hand to his shoulder as she left, and he’d squeezed it back.

His head still throbs and his ribs protest every movement, but he’s calm. This is his part of the ship; the place where he knows what will happen, where he’s in charge.

The door hisses open.

Hayes steps inside, stops just inside the threshold, rigid and formal as if he’s not sure he’s allowed in.

Malcolm watches him swallow before he speaks.

“Lieutenant,” his voice is low, almost husky.

“Major.”

He turns away again, leaves Hayes the chance to back out, to pretend that they haven’t bumped into each other. Hayes doesn’t take it.

“I came to… to apologise.”

Malcolm freezes, “That’s unnecessary.” He says, almost automatically. The words are meant to sound professional, but they just sound tired.

The sound of Hayes’ footsteps approach him. “It’s necessary.”

He’s still bruised when Malcolm looks up – it seems worse in the light, and with several hours for the bruises to develop – jaw swollen, split skin still stretched as if the wounds are trying to reopen. For a moment Malcolm thinks they must look like mirror images. He wonders if Archer noticed. He wonders if the captain cared.

“I don’t want your job.” Hayes starts, clearly gearing up for an explanation, but Malcolm cuts him off with a sigh.

“I know. I know that.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t ask the captain for your help on this mission and he didn’t ask me before he brought you aboard.”

It’s not an explanation, not for his behaviour, but it’s the closest he can get to one.

Hayes nods, slowly. “I… what I said, about your people and you, it was out of line.”

“Everything I’ve done has been out of line.” The self-deprecation slips from his lips before he can stop it.

“Not everything.”

Malcolm looks up, meets his gaze. The armoury hums softly between them.

“We told the captain we’d make an effort.”

“We did.” Hayes agrees, and then with a small, rueful huff. “I didn’t really make it easy on you.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“And I shouldn’t have started you on level two of that training programme.”

Whatever Malcolm had been about to say stumbles in his chest as he processes that – his first reaction is almost anger, but as he actually thinks about it, his mouth twists up in a smile.

“I knew that wasn’t me.” He’s almost laughing.

Hayes looks slightly bemused by his reaction. “It was a dick move.”

“It’s a little funny.” Malcolm tells him.

A beat. Then Hayes offers, awkwardly, almost boyishly:

“I’m heading to the mess hall. You eaten?”

He can recognise the olive branch – we told the captain we’d make an effort – and he can see that there are no teeth behind it.

“No.”

Hayes nods, once. “Walk with me?”

It feels strangely formal. Strangely careful. Malcolm stands anyway.

He half expects the mess to be empty – it’s the middle of the ‘day’ whatever that means in space – but it isn’t.

Rogers and McKenzie are just finishing rearrangements of the furniture; a whole load of tables pulled together in one large circle and chairs shoved around them. Not ‘fleeters on one side and MACOs on the other, but all of them, scattered around the table, watching, uncertain.

There’s an unspoken truce hanging in the air.

Rogers spots them first. She doesn’t smile. But her shoulders loosen and she waves her hands proudly at the construction. For a moment, she looks like a kid, showing off their artwork.

“Lieutenant. Major.” She nudges McKenzie with her elbow.

McKenzie seems equally proud of their attempts, regardless of the way they’ve upset the delicate ecosystem of the mess hall.

“Neutral zone.” She says, bounding over to them. “Whaddya think?”

Malcolm looks at Hayes.

Hayes looks at him.

And for a moment – a real moment – they almost smile.

“We figured… it might be easier if everyone ate together.” Rogers offers, quieter, almost uncertain.

We need to fix this. We’re a team, remember?

You don’t have to take everything on yourself.

“’s a good idea.” Hayes tells her, and then, with more confidence than Malcolm expects, steps towards the table. “Let’s not waste the effort.”

He pulls out a chair and sits.

Malcolm hesitates one fraction of a second longer… then sits beside him.

Their teams follow, shoving themselves around the oddly shaped circle in random places, trying to fit multiple trays in a space that should really only fit one, and the noise follows.

Softly at first; quiet questions, small jokes about the state of the ship, but it rises.

Rogers slides in beside him and nudges their shoulders together, grinning.

He smiles back. For a moment, it seems possible.

Not easy – they certainly haven’t fixed all the cracks that had splintered. But possible.

On his other side, Hayes leans in, voice pitched low so only Malcolm can hear:

“We can make this work, you know.”

Malcolm stares at the table, listens to the sound of their teams mixing, and sees Hayes’ hand next to his, matching bruises on their knuckles.

The scientists are all huddled together. One of them is crying. One of them, Malcolm notes, has grabbed a phase pistol from somewhere and is – albeit ineffectively – shooting in the direction of the attackers. 

“Stun doesn’t seem to have any effect on them!” Foster yells.

He wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission. Malcolm had only brought him because he’d complained about never being picked.

Archer waves his arms – Malcolm thinks he’s trying to communicate “don’t kill” but they’re out of time and quickly running out of options. 

Malcolm nods to the others. They duck back to switch their settings, and that’s when the tree Di Dio is leaning against moves. 

It rises up out of the ground and stabs him in one fluid movement.

Someone screams – one of the scientists, maybe the one that was crying. Malcolm’s not sure. 

With his cover gone, Di Dio becomes a target. Three shots hit him before Patel and Malcolm can reach to drag him back. 

One of the bullets – or maybe it was the branch – has hit an artery. His thigh is bleeding heavily. Too heavily.

Malcolm clamps a hand over the wound, feels the blood seeping up between his fingers, already losing pressure. His other hand fumbles for his communicator. 

As if from a distance, he can hear himself hailing the Enterprise, calling for emergency medevac. 

Beneath him, Di Dio grins, and there must be a hit to his lungs somewhere, because there’s blood bubbling up between his teeth. 

“Stay with me.” Malcolm mumbles, trying to find the other injuries. “C’mon, Pops, stay with me.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” he says, blood spitting out with every word, “‘s just a flesh wound.”

“Locking onto your position.” Trip says over the comms. 

Malcolm presses down harder on the wound. 

“Hey,” Di Dio gasps, patting the hand on his leg, “you’re a great leader, d’you know that? You’re gonna be an amazing captain someday.”

“Don’t,” Malcolm whispers.

“And Emma, she’s gonna go far.”

Trip confirms the lock. It must only be seconds before the beam-out starts, but it feels like an eternity.

“Look after each other, yeah?”

Malcolm doesn’t get the chance to respond.

Di Dio’s eyes slide closed the moment they dematerialise.

The med team is waiting for them, already moving before the transporter finishes materialising. Malcolm watches them take over. Efficient, fast, and practiced movements. They spot the wounds he missed, slap gauze over them, shout orders, and load Di Dio onto a stretcher. 

Rogers has also come to meet them. 

She stands, frozen, in the same places she’d stood when they left the ship. Earlier, she’d been smiling, had made a joke about changing the layout of the bridge when Malcolm told her not to touch anything. 

Now her eyes are wide and hollow. 

“Go with him,” Malcolm croaks.

She nods once and vanishes down the hall after the stretcher. Only the echo of her footsteps remaining with him. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, on the transporter pad, feeling Di Dio’s blood drying on his clothes and skin. Trip gives him one uneasy look, possibly says something, and leaves. 

In the end, it’s Hoshi who finds him again. 

She steps onto the transporter pad, even though she hates it, takes his hand without hesitation, and leads him back to his quarters. 

“Clean up,” she says gently. “I’ll wait.”

He strips down in silence. Shoves the uniform in a heap outside the bathroom, can’t bear to look at it. Hopes that she’ll know, that it won’t be there when he gets out. 

In the shower, under water hotter than he would normally choose, the blood doesn’t stop coming. He watches it circle the drain, dark at first, slowly fading into pink, and then finally clear. 

He’s been covered in blood before. It’s never felt like this.

Eventually, he gets out. 

Wraps a towel around his body. His hands rise on instinct, scrubbing at his face. It’s only then he notices that some of the blood has gathered underneath his nails. 

When he steps out of the bathroom, shows Hoshi his hands, her face crumples briefly. She gets it back under control, leads him back in and takes a nail brush to them until the only red left is the red-raw of rubbed skin. 

“Get dressed,” she prompts quietly, “we’ll go down to sickbay, see what’s happening.”

He follows her orders, mindlessly. Her voice is steady. He clings to it without realising it.

Even that can’t change the way he still feels Di Dio’s hand on his wrist, like the last thing his body memorised before everything fell apart.

When they reach sickbay, Malcolm’s hair is still damp from the shower. He hasn’t bothered drying it properly. It clings to his forehead in uneven strands. 

The security team is clustered in the corridor outside, backs pressed to the wall, legs curled under them or stretched straight across the floor. No one is speaking.

Gaeta looks up when Malcolm approaches. “We got kicked out,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Too many bodies in the way. Phlox needed the space.”

Under any other circumstances, the phrasing would’ve been a joke. It falls flat in the silence.

Rogers and Nguyen shift apart, just enough for Malcolm to slot himself into the gap between them, and they both lean heavily on him once he’s sat. It’s the role that Di Dio had been filling for him: the solid one, the one that could be leant on. 

He sets an arm on Nguyen’s shoulder and slides an arm around Roger’s waist. Her face is damp when she turns it into his neck. 

Hoshi hovers nearby, hands clasped behind her back, gaze flicking toward the closed sickbay doors like she’s willing them to open.

Patel and Foster appear a moment later, singed and slightly dazed, uniforms torn and scorched at the seams. Foster’s bleeding from a graze on his shoulder. They look at Malcolm like he’s the one who needs to speak first.

“All clear,” Patel says anyway. “Everyone else is fine. Archer’s started negotiations.”

Malcolm nods. There’s blood caked in Patel’s hairline.

“Go get cleaned up,” he says quietly.

There’s a pause where they both look at the sickbay doors, the same uncertainty that must have drawn the rest of them there – the need to be present, regardless of the outcome.

“He’s in surgery.” O’Malley says. “It’s still gonna be a while.”

They nod and disappear down the hall. The others don’t move. Neither does Malcolm. Time stretches.

Eventually, Patel and Foster return: hair damp, new uniforms, small medical patches on their arms. People slide over to leave room for them, allowing them to be among the team rather than to sit on the edges. 

Still, no one speaks. 

When the sickbay doors finally hiss open, the team collectively rises. And despite it all, Malcolm feels something like hope dawn in his chest. 

Phlox stands in the doorway. Takes a moment to just look at them all, his eyes slowly falling on each, individual face. His expression is wrong – grim, heavy, flattened, somehow. It takes Malcolm a second to process what it means. 

“I’m sorry,” Phlox says, and that’s all it takes. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The hope in Malcolm’s chest drops, falls into the pit of his stomach, now a heavy, absolute, sadness. 

Behind him, he hears Rogers exhale, quietly. Like a balloon deflating.

No one speaks. No one moves.

In the sterile corridor, he can almost hear everyone’s individual breaths. 

They scatter eventually.

Malcolm doesn’t remember how the hallway empties, only that Hoshi stays behind, murmurs something to Phlox, places a hand on his arm. Malcolm feels a flicker of warmth for her, buried under the exhausted emptiness that’s settled deep into his bones.

The mess hall is quiet. Too quiet. Not in the physical sense; there’s still the hum of systems, the clang of utensils, and the conversation of the rest of the crew. But the security team are always such a presence in there, the loudest group, laughing. That noise, that energy, is gone. Distant. Muted. Like the air has been thickened somehow.

Those of them who show up eat in silence. Malcolm picks at the food on his plate, not tasting the little that he does eat. 

No one even glances at the far wall where Di Dio used to sit. There’s a gap there, more noticeable than any empty chair.

The anniversary of their second year in space is tomorrow.

No one mentions it.

Di Dio had been the one who suggested a party. Just a week ago.

“‘Two years in orbit without killing each other,’” Rogers had laughed when he brought it up. “‘That’s worth a drink.’”

Malcolm hears it again in her voice, replayed in his head. The echo of a joke that never got made. 

Back in his quarters, he pulls up Di Dio’s file. 

It’s all information that he knows – his military service, his discharge, his recommendations, commendations – most of it gained through spending time with the man. Through being his friend. 

Because they had been friends, Malcolm realises. They had worked together, trained together, eaten together, laughed together, and he had leaned on Di Dio, heavily, trusted him to take care of the team and of Rogers when he wasn’t there. 

He thinks of the other man, gently nudging Emma to take a break, cajoling the whole group into the mess hall when they got too caught up in something, being a literal shoulder for Zhao to cry on that week some of the engineers had gone missing, her boyfriend included. 

Malcolm scrolls past the log without really seeing. Stops on the personal information.

Di Dio’s only listed family is a sister. He’s never mentioned her. There’s one note by Emma that says they’ve had no contact in the last four years.

He exhales slowly. He’ll have to write to her. Try to explain. Put into words what happened on a planet that doesn’t have a name yet.

For a long time, he just stares at the file. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t close it.

*

The ready room is too small for this many people.

Malcolm stands near the viewport, shoulders stiff, arms crossed in an effort not to take up space. T’Pol is by the desk, silent as ever, her posture impeccable. Travis and Hoshi lean against the far wall. Trip paces, in the little space that’s left, like a man with his skin on wrong.

The room feels like it's holding its breath.

Malcolm hasn’t slept. He didn’t try. Every time he closes his eyes, he feels Di Dio’s hand on his wrist again, hears his voice saying you’re gonna be an amazing captain someday. The words echo, but they don’t settle.

Archer stands behind his desk with a PADD in his hand, looking down at it like it might change if he just blinks hard enough.

No one says anything.

“This came through last night,” Archer says at last, and the silence breaks like glass. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been up longer than any of them. “Earth has been attacked.”

No one moves.

“We don’t know who yet,” he continues. “We’re getting information in pieces. Civilian reports. News channels. Emergency broadcasts. There’s… no confirmed number of casualties. Not yet.”

Hoshi’s hand comes up to her mouth. Travis exhales, low and shaken.

“It hit the western hemisphere.” Archer’s eyes skim the PADD again, then close briefly. “Florida took the worst of it.”

Trip’s head snaps up. “What?”

“There’s a confirmed impact in the central region. We don’t have a list of affected towns, but there was…” Archer hesitates. “There was significant damage.”

Trip takes a step back like he’s been physically hit.

“My parents,” he says, breath catching. “My– my brother, god, Lizzie…” 

He’s not asking a question. Just saying their names like a prayer.

Malcolm wants to move toward him, to offer something – reassurance, maybe – but his limbs feel numb, like his body isn’t quite his anymore. How much grief can one person take?

“There’s a message queue,” Archer says gently. “Hoshi, I need you to prioritise that. People are trying to get through. We’ll know more soon.”

She nods, as Trip lowers himself into the nearest chair like he’s afraid it might shatter under him. Puts his face in his hands. Says nothing. 

The silence around him stretches, long, taut, and painfully human.

Malcolm keeps his gaze on the stars outside the viewport. He tries not to think about how easy it is to disappear, how little warning you get. Di Dio had been talking one moment. Gone the next.

T’Pol is the one who breaks the silence again, quiet but firm. “If this was an intentional strike, it was meant to send a message.”

Her tone is too calm. Too calculated and she seems to know it. The words thud heavily in the space she leaves behind, and no one rushes to fill it.

Archer nods, face hardening.

“We intend to respond,” he says.

It doesn’t feel like a plan. Not yet. It just feels like inevitability.

The briefing ends shortly after. The door hisses open, and they spill out into the corridor in ones and twos, too quiet, too scattered.

Malcolm lingers in the doorway. He glances back once at the room, at the chair where Trip still sits, unmoving. Then he turns and follows the others out into the too-bright hallway, still carrying Di Dio’s final touch like a weight on his skin.

When he returns to the mess hall, brought there by an unwillingness to be alone, he finds that someone has projected up news footage that must have been sent in the same brief Archer received. 

The camera has captured a shaky image of the weapon, before it fired – an odd looking black orb – and the news reporter is attempting to describe what she can see. It quickly switches over to a shot from a helicopter. A different reporter, in contact with the first.

“I’m not quite sure what we’re seeing here, Vic, it seems to have some sort of eye? Or opening?”

“What for?”

The question is answered by the weapon itself. The ‘eye’ that she had described glows, a bright orange, red, and then blue, and a beam of energy shoots out, momentarily blinding the camera.

Malcolm finds himself stuck in the doorway, watching with everyone else as horrors that have already happened, unfold.

On screen, the reporter in the helicopter is yelling at the pilot, instructions to “get us out of here!” while her colleague on the ground desperately tries to work out what’s happening. 

“Oh, God.” The cameraman says, the image dropping as he loses control of the camera in his panic. “Oh, that’s coming straight at us, we gotta…”

There’s another blinding glimpse of the beam, a wide, shaking shot that suggests the pilot is attempting to get out of its path, and then the feed cuts out, leaving only the original reporter, staring at the sky, something like panic in her eyes. 

“May?” She asks. “May, are you there? What happened?”

They’re gone, Malcolm thinks, and she must know that they’re gone, but…

“May?” 

Across the room, he watches the crew come to the same realisation. Someone stumbles out of their chair. Another just puts their head down on the table.

“It’s still coming.” Someone else behind the camera says, a tone of detached acceptance in their voice. 

The reporter turns back to the camera. “I think…” she clears her throat. “We appear to have lost contact with our aerial team, and I think, given the circumstances, we are unlikely to regain it.”

Malcolm’s hand clenches against the wall beside the doorframe. He can’t step forward. Can’t look away.

The people in the background, who had been running since the beam started, have stopped, are just milling around and watching the red-hot destruction approach them. 

“If this is my last time on air,” the reporter – Vic, her colleague had called her – “then I want to say it has been a pleasure working with you all.”

There are tears dripping down her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“The destruction from this… weapon seems to be creating some sort of cavern. I’m not sure to what end, but the willful death of civilians does not seem to be an issue for whoever is manning it.” 

Some of the people in the background have sat down, are hugging, kissing, wrapping themselves up in each other. The destruction, the fire, is getting ever closer.

“Jane?” Vic says to the camera. “I love you.”

And then the red-hot overtakes the background, her, and the camera feed cuts out, leaving two shaken reporters in the studio, staring at their screens, lost for words. 

One of them shakes his head, presses a hand over his mouth and gets up, walks off camera, obviously crying. The other one stays put, something distant in his eyes. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Someone shuts the projection down, rolls up the screen, as almost everyone leaves the room, as if they can flee from the horrors they all witnessed. 

The security team stay. 

Malcolm finally moves from the door, pulled towards them by an unnatural force. 

They gather like they always do: instinctively, without instruction, in the shadowed corner of the mess hall that’s somehow become theirs. A few chairs scraped into a circle. Some stand. Most sit on the floor. No one speaks.

Malcolm finds himself in the centre, not by design, just gravity. Gaeta and Kowalski are shoulder to shoulder beside him. Rogers is on his left, stiff-backed, arms crossed, staring hard at nothing. Her face is dry.

Zhao sits opposite, knees pulled tight to her chest, face buried in her hands. Her shoulders shake. Nguyen crouches beside her, a hand on her knee, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say.

No one tells her to stop.

For once, the silence of his team isn’t comforting. A sort of despair hangs in the air between them. No one is pretending to be okay. No one is telling jokes to break the tension. It would have been Di Dio who spoke first, who gently pushed them towards distraction. 

Can it really only have been a day since he left? In the space between them, it feels like an eternity. 

Malcolm looks around at them – these people who have bled with him, who have buried their own, who have clung to each other through two years of unthinkable things – and realises they are bracing together again. Not against fire or bullets or hostile species this time, but something quieter, more terrifying in its vastness: loss without meaning. Grief without answers.

And for a second, he can feel Di Dio’s hand on his wrist again, warm and steady. Look after each other, yeah?

He exhales slowly.

The space between life and death has always felt thin out here: a narrow edge, worn thinner with every mission, every name scratched into memory. But today, it feels thinner than ever.

And they are still here. Still together.

He knows the basics; knows what everyone knows, the attack on Earth, the unimaginable number of casualties, but he also knows about the crew. The security team. Knows that Enterprise lost a man just days before the news came through. That they’ve been reassigned without rest, without downtime, to go after a threat that still doesn’t have a name. He knows, too, that they’ll be joining a crew that’s been through hell and come out the other side bloodied, grieving, and probably unwilling to open themselves up again. 

He’s read the mission brief. Read the personnel files. Read Reed’s file twice.

And still: nothing quite prepares him for that first meeting. 

The armoury – once he eventually finds it – has weaponry and other things strewn across the floor in something that might be organised. He counts twenty of the twenty one personnel. 

There’s a blonde woman at the center, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that bounces every time she moves her head, and the others seem to orbit her. 

“I just don’t think we’ve got this much storage space.” She’s saying, stressed, when Hayes cautiously steps in through the door. “I don’t…”

She tenses, spins, and the rest of them follow her gaze until Hayes is pinned under their collective stare. He doesn’t flinch. 

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Reed.”

The blonde woman – she’s more of a girl, really, now that he’s looking at her face, impossibly young – frowns. “Who are you?”

“Hayes. Major Hayes. Of the MACOs.”

The confusion on her face doesn’t clear, and a few of the others step in to flank her. 

“What do you want with Reed?” one of the men asks. There's something possessive in his tone. Protective.

Hayes doesn’t allow his thoughts to show themselves on his face, but they shoot through his mind like bullets. The security team are not expecting him, as he had been anticipating they would. 

“To introduce myself, since we will be working together.”

There’s murmuring from the back of the group. More confusion. 

“Working together.”

Clearly, despite her age, the blonde woman is in charge. 

“Yes. We’ve been assigned to the Enterprise to assist with security on this mission.”

“We don’t need assistance.” Someone objects. 

The woman waves her hand in their direction and they fall silent again. “We weren’t told anything about that.”

Hayes doesn’t have a response. “Can I speak with Reed?”

The blonde woman, still tense, still frowning, glances to someone at her side. A redhead, taller, arms crossed, silent but watchful.

“Zhao, find the Lieutenant,” she says.

Zhao nods once and disappears through a side door, moving fast.

Hayes doesn’t move. He knows better than to push.

He waits.

The silence stretches. The security officers don’t disperse. They don’t return to their tasks. They stand there, openly watching him: not like a stranger, not even like a threat. Like something other. Something they don’t want.

Someone behind him coughs. Another shifts their weight. The atmosphere tightens.

Eventually, Zhao returns with, behind her, Malcolm Reed.

He looks… different from his file.

Tired, for one. Pale, drawn, like the bones underneath are sharper than they used to be. But his presence? That hasn’t changed. He walks in and the room realigns around him without a word. The others peel back, subtly, instinctively, leaving him space.

Hayes straightens. “Lieutenant.”

“Major Hayes,” Reed says. His voice is level. Carefully so. “You’ve arrived early.”

Hayes nods once, evenly. “I figured it was better to get eyes on the space before we deploy.”

Reed’s gaze flicks over him; not hostile, exactly, but assessing. Controlled. Tired in a way that feels dangerous.

“This isn’t a standard ship tour, Major.”

He can feel the gazes of the rest of the security team resting on him, and he somehow knows that however Reed decides to react will set the tone for how the rest of them treat him and his team. 

“I’m not here for the scenery,” Hayes replies. “Just wanted to introduce myself. My people have been assigned to assist with ship security for the duration of the mission.”

That gets a reaction. 

Small, but sharp. A flicker behind Reed’s eyes, a barely visible shift in his jaw. The rest of the team doesn’t move, but Hayes can feel them listening harder now. Like a wolf pack that’s caught a scent.

“I’m aware.” He replies tightly. “I’ve just come from that briefing with Captain Archer.”

Just? Hayes thinks, but remains silent, allows Reed’s gaze to settle on him, heavily. 

He still doesn’t look at the rest of them, but Hayes can see him feeling them. Calculating how much weight this will put on them. How much they’ve already taken.

“They’re staying?” One of the security team asks, eventually. 

Reed turns to them. “Yes. Archer wants backup for this mission. They’re here to provide it.”

It’s only then that he seems to notice the mess on the floor. 

“Rogers, what is this?”

The blonde woman shrugs. “It’s everything from our storage space. Apparently it’s being used for something else, I haven’t had a chance to go down and check.”

“On G-deck?” Hayes asks. 

The attention of the room turns back to him as Rogers slowly nods. 

“I think that space may be being used as the MACOs quarters now.” 

As if they weren’t already unhappy enough with his presence. Rogers’ mouth pinches together at his words. 

“I see.”

They’re annoyed. Hayes keeps his tone neutral. Diplomatic.

“Lieutenant, I would appreciate a chance to discuss the integration of the teams.”

Reed’s mouth twists slightly, but he shrugs, gestures to a door towards the back of the room that Hayes hadn’t seen. “Then by all means, please step into my office.”

Ignoring the weight of twenty gazes, Hayes does. 

It’s a small room. Just a desk and a chair, with enough space for maybe two people to stand. He falls into parade rest and waits. 

Finally, Reed speaks.

“This mission is not routine. I assume your briefing made that clear.”

“It did.”

“And did it make clear that we do not need your help?”

They stand there, silent. Hayes doesn’t blink.

“I know what it looks like,” he says eventually. “Outside unit. Fresh faces. Reinforcements. But I’m not here to replace you, Lieutenant. Or your team. I’m here because whatever’s out there is big enough that Starfleet thinks you’ll need help.”

Reed looks at him for a long moment.

Then: “Help is one thing. Taking over is another.”

“I don’t take what isn’t mine.”

Reed’s head tilts slightly. “We’ll see.”

He’s an odd man, Hayes decides. Deeply caring and yet also toeing the line of apathy.

“I’ll arrange a joint briefing,” Reed continues finally. “You’ll meet the senior staff tomorrow. After that, we’ll figure out how to keep your people out of my way without putting anyone at risk.”

Hayes nods. “Understood.”

“Good.” Reed turns again, already walking. “And Major?”

“Yes?”

“If your team causes trouble, I will send them back to Earth. With or without your permission.”

Hayes doesn’t rise to it. Just inclines his head. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Good.” There’s another pause. “You’ll need to liaise with Ensign Rogers.” Reed tells him. 

Rogers. “The blonde?”

Reed looks up, clearly unimpressed with his description. “Yes. She’s my second, she runs the team while I’m on the bridge.”

Which explains the way she’d been the center of the room when he’d first walked in, but doesn’t explain why she looks so young. Reed watches him run that through his head, a hint of threat in his posture as he waits for Hayes’ reaction.

“Noted. I’ll pass on our personnel files to her.”

“Good. Send her in on your way out.”

It’s a dismissal if Hayes had ever heard one. He leaves the room.

Rogers isn’t hard to find, already hovering outside the office, as though she knows he’ll want to speak to her next. She doesn’t acknowledge Hayes when he passes. 

So that’s Reed.

He lets out a slow breath, adjusts his cuffs, and heads back toward the converted quarters. His team will want answers. 

*

“Hey.”

Rogers’ voice is quiet as she slips into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft hiss.

Malcolm doesn’t look up right away. Just lets out a breath and stares at the middle distance. “Hi.”

She crosses to his desk, perches on the edge. Their knees bump. He still doesn’t move.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks, after a moment.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know what to make of them yet,” he clarifies. “They’re MACOs. They’re efficient. And they’re here.”

“Why?”

“Archer requested it.”

She blinks. Frowns slightly. “Seriously?”

He nods, rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Just came from his office. He thinks we need the support.”

Rogers’ jaw tightens. “We don’t.”

“No. We don’t,” he agrees, and this time, his voice is firmer. Bitter, even. “But I didn’t say that, did I? I nodded. I said understood, sir .” He scoffs. “You know, when he first told me about the mission, he said ‘You’re the only option I trust.’ Us. Me.”

Rogers glances back at the door, as if she’ll still be able to see Hayes’ retreating figure.

“What happened to that?”

Malcolm finally looks at her. There’s something cracked in the look. Not broken, but worn thin.

“He’s sending over their personnel files,” he says. “I need you to review them. Figure out how they fit.”

“They won’t,” Rogers replies immediately. Then, a beat later, “But I’ll read them.”

He nods, grateful in the way only someone deeply tired can be.

“We still have the advantage,” she says. “We know the ship. We’ve lived this mission longer than anyone else. We know what it takes.”

“They’ll learn,” Malcolm says quietly. Not with malice. Just resignation.

Rogers tilts her head. “And in the meantime?”

He looks past her, to the door she came through. Beyond that, to the corridors, the crew, the pressure still climbing behind his eyes.

“In the meantime,” he says, “we make sure no one gets killed because they’re trying to prove something.”

Rogers doesn’t answer right away. She just nods, slow and deliberate, like she’s filing the sentence away somewhere it’ll echo when she needs it. She’s always been good at learning from orders she’s not sure she agrees with.

“Understood.”

*

When Hayes gets back to the MACO quarters, they’ve already started making themselves at home in the sparse, utilitarian kind of way soldiers do. Bags stowed, boots lined up. There’s a workout circuit half-formed in one corner. 

McKenzie looks up from where she’s organizing the weapons lockers. “That didn’t take long.”

“It was long enough,” Hayes replies, deadpan.

A couple of the others glance over. No one speaks right away, but it’s clear they’ve all been waiting. Watching the clock. Wondering how it went.

“Report?” McKenzie asks, like she already knows what kind of welcome he got.

Hayes doesn’t sit. “Security team wasn’t briefed about our arrival.”

“Seriously?” That’s Ramirez, incredulous. “Starfleet just tossed us in with no warning?”

He shrugs. “Look, from what I’ve seen, the team’s tight-knit. Insular. We’re not going to get a warm welcome.”

“We’re not here for a warm welcome,” McKenzie mutters. “We’re here for the job.”

Hayes nods. “Lieutenant Reed knows that. Barely.”

That gets a few quiet chuckles. Tension bleeds off, just a little.

“Tomorrow we’re sitting down with the senior officers,” he continues. “Until then, keep to the schedule. Stay out of their way. No challenges, no showing off. This is not a proving ground. Not yet.”

He looks around the room. They meet his gaze, one by one.

“Understood?”

A chorus of muted affirmatives. Nothing enthusiastic. But solid.

Still, as Hayes moves to his locker, he catches the glances passed between a few of them; the familiar flickers of anticipation, challenge, pride.

They’re professionals. But they’re MACOs, too. Trained to push. To prove. To hold the line even when no one wants them there.

This ship doesn’t trust them yet. That much is clear.

The question is, how long will it take before it does?

*

There isn’t even a briefing room for them to use – and Hayes knew it was never a military ship, but that just seems insane. Instead, they’re told to gather in the armoury. 

It’s the security team’s territory, and all of them know it.

The room is large enough for drills, maintenance, and light training, but not for this. Not for two full squads of armed personnel standing shoulder to shoulder, refusing to look at each other.

Hayes arrives with his MACOs in silent formation. They take the right-hand side of the room, automatically lining up against the wall like it’s a parade ground.

The security team is already there. Twenty of them, give or take. Some are standing. Some are seated on crates or benches. None of them move. They don’t introduce themselves. They don’t offer greetings. They just watch. Warily.

Hayes doesn't know their names yet. Just Reed – who isn’t yet present – and Rogers who he’d been sort-of introduced to the day before. 

She’s standing at the front of their group, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her expression is a carefully constructed mask, but her stance screams protector. Challenge. A wall he’s not meant to cross.

Beside her stands a tall redhead; silent, sharp-eyed. A few paces behind them, a broad-shouldered man in a torn undershirt leans back against the lockers, chewing something with slow, deliberate disinterest.

A no-man’s land stretches between the two groups: an unspoken barrier across the middle of the room. Not a single person steps into it.

The air is thick. Tense. Recycled too many times, stale with friction before a single word is spoken.

McKenzie coughs. The attention of the room shifts to her.

“Hi.”

She’s greeted with silence. Rogers narrows her eyes slightly, as if she’s trying to work out what McKenzie means by that.

“Or not.” She mumbles, loud in the silent room.

Reed choses that moment to enter. The shift is immediate. The security team straightens. The MACOs clock the change too, subtly adjusting posture, even if they’re not sure why.

Hayes nods at him, doesn’t offer a smile. 

“This is Lieutenant Reed,” He says, by way of introduction, even though it’s obvious. “Ship’s Tactical Officer. Head of security.”

No one replies. A few MACOs incline their heads. The security officers do not.

Reed doesn’t greet them. He doesn’t bother with introductions either. “You all know why we’re here.”

The security team all nod. Apparently they are capable of reactions. 

“We’ve been ordered into a hostile theatre,” he continues. “The threat is unknown. The danger is not. Starfleet Command has assigned the MACO unit to assist with this mission.”

Someone in the security team mutters something too low to catch. A ripple of suppressed reactions rolls through their half of the room.

Hayes breathes in deeply through his nose, lets the silence hang for a moment before he steps forward. Reed doesn’t exactly give him the go-ahead to speak, but he doesn’t stop him either.

“I expect coordination. Professionalism. We will be sharing resources, sharing responsibilities.”

“Do you think we’re incapable of that?” Rogers asks. 

Something in that half of the room shifts, as though they’re all prepared to defend her. 

“No. I’m simply stating expectations.”

“We answer to the Lieutenant.” One of them says, a hint of something defensive in his voice. 

Hayes had skimmed all their files, but hadn’t been provided with photos to attach names to faces.

The unspoken words are obvious: not to you.

He looks to Reed, expects some sort of backup, but the man just stares him down, coolly. 

Hayes keeps his tone even. “Understood. I’m not here to overstep.”

“Then don’t,” Rogers replies.

There’s something he can’t quite place in her voice. Something that seems to compliment the way the entire team are only-just angled towards Reed, regardless of who is speaking. 

For a moment, no one moves. Reed still hasn’t said a word since his opening statement, and Hayes realises, abruptly, that he’s the one being evaluated here. Not his unit. Not the mission parameters. Him. And not by the MACOs, but by the twenty officers across the room who don’t blink, don’t speak, don’t break rank, not in formation, but more unified than any squad Hayes has ever commanded.

“I’ll be liaising directly with Lieutenant Reed,” Hayes says, voice steady. “And Ensign Rogers, as second.”

He pauses to gesture to the woman in question, for the benefit of his own team, sees a few of them tilt their heads, appraising. They might be being judged, but they can judge right back. It’s a vindictive thought. Not necessarily conducive to the situation and he scolds himself quietly. 

His statement at least gets a nod of acknowledgment from the redhead beside her: Zhao, maybe. Rogers had named her as the one sent to retrieve Reed the day before.

“We’ll conduct joint drills starting tomorrow,” Reed says finally, his voice dry. “Gear alignment. Combat protocols. Boarding procedures. If you’re not on rotation, you’re expected to be present.”

“We run our own formations,” someone from the MACO side puts in – Ramirez, Hayes thinks with a sigh.

“Then run them elsewhere,” Rogers snaps, quick as a whip.

A low murmur runs through the security team, fast and flickering. The MACOs stiffen, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t matter how professional they are – they weren’t expecting this. Not hostility, exactly, but this defensiveness . This closed circuit. A team that functions like a single creature, curled around a fresh wound.

Hayes lifts a hand slightly, a silent gesture for Ramirez to stand down.

Reed still doesn’t react to the undercurrent. He simply tilts his head, gaze flicking over the MACO squad.

“Any questions?” he asks.

None are voiced.

“Good. Ensign Rogers will provide a schedule for integration. And Major Hayes…” He glances back at Hayes, expression unreadable. “You’ll forward a list of your personnel’s qualifications before tomorrow. Tactical preferences. Deployment records. Anything I haven’t already been given.”

Hayes nods once. “Of course.”

Reed looks at neither group. “Dismissed.”

The word isn’t shouted. It’s barely louder than conversation level. And yet, both halves of the room move at once.

The security team breaks formation like smoke, moving in a coordinated drift, dispersing into pairs and clusters, heading toward lockers, gear racks, or the exits. The MACOs remain more contained. More traditional. Hayes sees a few of his people trading looks with the security officers, sizing them up, exchanging silent evaluations that are equal parts interest and challenge.

Rogers doesn’t leave. She waits. Watching Hayes. As if daring him to follow her out.

He doesn’t.

Reed turns on his heel and leaves without another word. The doors hiss shut behind him. 

“Okay,” McKenzie says under her breath as they return to the MACO corridor. “So we’re not friends.”

Hayes just exhales slowly and begins mentally rewriting the next three days’ worth of drills.

“It’ll pass.” He tells them, without conviction. “They’ll get used to us.”

*

The entirety of Reed’s security team is gathered around one table when he walks into the mess. Apparently, their shifts overlap enough for them to eat together. There are several abandoned trays on the tables around them, some with the remainder of breakfast foods and others with the remainder of dinner.

He walks as close past them as he can without looking weird on his way to the food and manages to catch a part of their conversation.

“Well, now you’re just being unrealistic.”

“No, no, come on, you can’t see it?”

The table laughs, loud enough that the rest of the room looks over to see what’s going on, although no one actually approaches to ask. Hayes isn’t confident enough on the dynamics of the ‘fleeters to comment on them, but the security team feels like a separate organism: self-contained, largely uninterested in mingling the way the rest of the crew does.

Rogers glances up, sees him watching and he turns away again. It’s one thing to watch the security team interact, it’s an entirely different thing for them to be aware of it. 

“What are they doing?” McKenzie asks, quietly, when he finally sits down. The rest of the MACOs keep glancing over at the group, a general air of wariness surrounding them. 

He shrugs. “No clue.”

“They’re making a bet,” Forbes offers. He seems particularly wary of Reed’s team, sitting sideways in his seat slightly so he can keep an eye on them. 

“On what?”

Forbes shrugs. “Can’t hear them. But that’s gotta be it, they’re gathered around one person, gotta be their bookie.” 

Hayes glances back over, catching Rogers’ eye again. “They were saying about something being unrealistic when I walked past.”

Forbes waves his knife like that proves his point. “Exactly.”

“Are they running numbers again?” Reed says nearby, voice low but easy to catch.

The MACOs all go quiet. Listening.

Rogers laughs slightly. “They’re bored, and it’s tense.”

“What’s it on?”

He doesn’t hear an answer, but Reed snorts, amused. “Who’s at the top?”

Instead of an answer, Rogers gestured him over to the table where the rest of the team look up hopefully. It’s weird. The way they look at him whenever he walks in, like they’re all sunflowers and Reed’s the sun.

“Wanna put something down, Lieutenant?” One of them asks. 

“Who’s at the top?” Reed asks again, leaning over, the ones around him shuffling slightly so he can get a good look at whatever’s on the screen. He laughs, a short sound. “You do know that bullying the chief engineer is a bad idea, yes?”

A few of them scoff. “We’re not bullying him,” Rogers objects, “statistically speaking, he is the most likely to do it.”

There’s a pause as Reed reads over the rest of the list. And then, “Twenty. On Mayweather.”

He knows the basics; knows what everyone knows, the attack on Earth, the unimaginable number of casualties, but he also knows about the crew. The security team. Knows that Enterprise lost a man just days before the news came through. That they’ve been reassigned without rest, without downtime, to go after a threat that still doesn’t have a name. He knows, too, that they’ll be joining a crew that’s been through hell and come out the other side bloodied, grieving, and probably unwilling to open themselves up again. 

He’s read the mission brief. Read the personnel files. Read Reed’s file twice.

And still: nothing quite prepares him for that first meeting. 

The armoury – once he eventually finds it – has weaponry and other things strewn across the floor in something that might be organised. He counts twenty of the twenty one personnel. 

There’s a blonde woman at the center, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that bounces every time she moves her head, and the others seem to orbit her. 

“I just don’t think we’ve got this much storage space.” She’s saying, stressed, when Hayes cautiously steps in through the door. “I don’t…”

She tenses, spins, and the rest of them follow her gaze until Hayes is pinned under their collective stare. He doesn’t flinch. 

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Reed.”

The blonde woman – she’s more of a girl, really, now that he’s looking at her face, impossibly young – frowns. “Who are you?”

“Hayes. Major Hayes. Of the MACOs.”

The confusion on her face doesn’t clear, and a few of the others step in to flank her. 

“What do you want with Reed?” one of the men asks. There's something possessive in his tone. Protective.

Hayes doesn’t allow his thoughts to show themselves on his face, but they shoot through his mind like bullets. The security team are not expecting him, as he had been anticipating they would. 

“To introduce myself, since we will be working together.”

There’s murmuring from the back of the group. More confusion. 

“Working together.”

Clearly, despite her age, the blonde woman is in charge. 

“Yes. We’ve been assigned to the Enterprise to assist with security on this mission.”

“We don’t need assistance.” Someone objects. 

The woman waves her hand in their direction and they fall silent again. “We weren’t told anything about that.”

Hayes doesn’t have a response. “Can I speak with Reed?”

The blonde woman, still tense, still frowning, glances to someone at her side. A redhead, taller, arms crossed, silent but watchful.

“Zhao, find the Lieutenant,” she says.

Zhao nods once and disappears through a side door, moving fast.

Hayes doesn’t move. He knows better than to push.

He waits.

The silence stretches. The security officers don’t disperse. They don’t return to their tasks. They stand there, openly watching him: not like a stranger, not even like a threat. Like something other . Something they don’t want.

Someone behind him coughs. Another shifts their weight. The atmosphere tightens.

Eventually, Zhao returns with, behind her, Malcolm Reed.

He looks… different from his file.

Tired, for one. Pale, drawn, like the bones underneath are sharper than they used to be. But his presence? That hasn’t changed. He walks in and the room realigns around him without a word. The others peel back, subtly, instinctively, leaving him space.

Hayes straightens. “Lieutenant.”

“Major Hayes,” Reed says. His voice is level. Carefully so. “You’ve arrived early.”

Hayes nods once, evenly. “I figured it was better to get eyes on the space before we deploy.”

Reed’s gaze flicks over him; not hostile, exactly, but assessing. Controlled. Tired in a way that feels dangerous.

“This isn’t a standard ship tour, Major.”

He can feel the gazes of the rest of the security team resting on him, and he somehow knows that however Reed decides to react will set the tone for how the rest of them treat him and his team. 

“I’m not here for the scenery,” Hayes replies. “Just wanted to introduce myself. My people have been assigned to assist with ship security for the duration of the mission.”

That gets a reaction. 

Small, but sharp. A flicker behind Reed’s eyes, a barely visible shift in his jaw. The rest of the team doesn’t move, but Hayes can feel them listening harder now. Like a wolf pack that’s caught a scent.

“I’m aware.” He replies tightly. “I’ve just come from that briefing with Captain Archer.”

Just? Hayes thinks, but remains silent, allows Reed’s gaze to settle on him, heavily. 

He still doesn’t look at the rest of them, but Hayes can see him feeling them. Calculating how much weight this will put on them. How much they’ve already taken.

“They’re staying?” One of the security team asks, eventually. 

Reed turns to them. “Yes. Archer wants backup for this mission. They’re here to provide it.”

It’s only then that he seems to notice the mess on the floor. 

“Rogers, what is this?”

The blonde woman shrugs. “It’s everything from our storage space. Apparently it’s being used for something else, I haven’t had a chance to go down and check.”

“On G-deck?” Hayes asks. 

The attention of the room turns back to him as Rogers slowly nods. 

“I think that space may be being used as the MACOs quarters now.” 

As if they weren’t already unhappy enough with his presence. Rogers’ mouth pinches together at his words. 

“I see.”

They’re annoyed. Hayes keeps his tone neutral. Diplomatic.

“Lieutenant, I would appreciate a chance to discuss the integration of the teams.”

Reed’s mouth twists slightly, but he shrugs, gestures to a door towards the back of the room that Hayes hadn’t seen. “Then by all means, please step into my office.”

Ignoring the weight of twenty gazes, Hayes does. 

It’s a small room. Just a desk and a chair, with enough space for maybe two people to stand. He falls into parade rest and waits. 

Finally, Reed speaks.

“This mission is not routine. I assume your briefing made that clear.”

“It did.”

“And did it make clear that we do not need your help?”

They stand there, silent. Hayes doesn’t blink.

“I know what it looks like,” he says eventually. “Outside unit. Fresh faces. Reinforcements. But I’m not here to replace you, Lieutenant. Or your team. I’m here because whatever’s out there is big enough that Starfleet thinks you’ll need help.”

Reed looks at him for a long moment.

Then: “Help is one thing. Taking over is another.”

“I don’t take what isn’t mine.”

Reed’s head tilts slightly. “We’ll see.”

He’s an odd man, Hayes decides. Deeply caring and yet also toeing the line of apathy.

“I’ll arrange a joint briefing,” Reed continues finally. “You’ll meet the senior staff tomorrow. After that, we’ll figure out how to keep your people out of my way without putting anyone at risk.”

Hayes nods. “Understood.”

“Good.” Reed turns again, already walking. “And Major?”

“Yes?”

“If your team causes trouble, I will send them back to Earth. With or without your permission.”

Hayes doesn’t rise to it. Just inclines his head. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Good.” There’s another pause. “You’ll need to liaise with Ensign Rogers.” Reed tells him. 

Rogers. “The blonde?”

Reed looks up, clearly unimpressed with his description. “Yes. She’s my second, she runs the team while I’m on the bridge.”

Which explains the way she’d been the center of the room when he’d first walked in, but doesn’t explain why she looks so young. Reed watches him run that through his head, a hint of threat in his posture as he waits for Hayes’ reaction.

“Noted. I’ll pass on our personnel files to her.”

“Good. Send her in on your way out.”

It’s a dismissal if Hayes had ever heard one. He leaves the room.

Rogers isn’t hard to find, already hovering outside the office, as though she knows he’ll want to speak to her next. She doesn’t acknowledge Hayes when he passes. 

So that’s Reed.

He lets out a slow breath, adjusts his cuffs, and heads back toward the converted quarters. His team will want answers. 

*

“Hey.”

Rogers’ voice is quiet as she slips into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft hiss.

Malcolm doesn’t look up right away. Just lets out a breath and stares at the middle distance. “Hi.”

She crosses to his desk, perches on the edge. Their knees bump. He still doesn’t move.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks, after a moment.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know what to make of them yet,” he clarifies. “They’re MACOs. They’re efficient. And they’re here.”

“Why?”

“Archer requested it.”

She blinks. Frowns slightly. “Seriously?”

He nods, rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Just came from his office. He thinks we need the support.”

Rogers’ jaw tightens. “We don’t.”

“No. We don’t,” he agrees, and this time, his voice is firmer. Bitter, even. “But I didn’t say that, did I? I nodded. I said understood, sir .” He scoffs. “You know, when he first told me about the mission, he said ‘You’re the only option I trust.’ Us. Me.”

Rogers glances back at the door, as if she’ll still be able to see Hayes’ retreating figure.

“What happened to that?”

Malcolm finally looks at her. There’s something cracked in the look. Not broken, but worn thin.

“He’s sending over their personnel files,” he says. “I need you to review them. Figure out how they fit.”

“They won’t,” Rogers replies immediately. Then, a beat later, “But I’ll read them.”

He nods, grateful in the way only someone deeply tired can be.

“We still have the advantage,” she says. “We know the ship. We’ve lived this mission longer than anyone else. We know what it takes.”

“They’ll learn,” Malcolm says quietly. Not with malice. Just resignation.

Rogers tilts her head. “And in the meantime?”

He looks past her, to the door she came through. Beyond that, to the corridors, the crew, the pressure still climbing behind his eyes.

“In the meantime,” he says, “we make sure no one gets killed because they’re trying to prove something.”

Rogers doesn’t answer right away. She just nods, slow and deliberate, like she’s filing the sentence away somewhere it’ll echo when she needs it. She’s always been good at learning from orders she’s not sure she agrees with.

“Understood.”

*

When Hayes gets back to the MACO quarters, they’ve already started making themselves at home in the sparse, utilitarian kind of way soldiers do. Bags stowed, boots lined up. There’s a workout circuit half-formed in one corner. 

McKenzie looks up from where she’s organizing the weapons lockers. “That didn’t take long.”

“It was long enough,” Hayes replies, deadpan.

A couple of the others glance over. No one speaks right away, but it’s clear they’ve all been waiting. Watching the clock. Wondering how it went.

“Report?” McKenzie asks, like she already knows what kind of welcome he got.

Hayes doesn’t sit. “Security team wasn’t briefed about our arrival.”

“Seriously?” That’s Ramirez, incredulous. “Starfleet just tossed us in with no warning?”

He shrugs. “Look, from what I’ve seen, the team’s tight-knit. Insular. We’re not going to get a warm welcome.”

“We’re not here for a warm welcome,” McKenzie mutters. “We’re here for the job.”

Hayes nods. “Lieutenant Reed knows that. Barely.”

That gets a few quiet chuckles. Tension bleeds off, just a little.

“Tomorrow we’re sitting down with the senior officers,” he continues. “Until then, keep to the schedule. Stay out of their way. No challenges, no showing off. This is not a proving ground. Not yet.”

He looks around the room. They meet his gaze, one by one.

“Understood?”

A chorus of muted affirmatives. Nothing enthusiastic. But solid.

Still, as Hayes moves to his locker, he catches the glances passed between a few of them; the familiar flickers of anticipation, challenge, pride.

They’re professionals. But they’re MACOs, too. Trained to push. To prove. To hold the line even when no one wants them there.

This ship doesn’t trust them yet. That much is clear.

The question is, how long will it take before it does?

*

There isn’t even a briefing room for them to use – and Hayes knew it was never a military ship, but that just seems insane. Instead, they’re told to gather in the armoury. 

It’s the security team’s territory, and all of them know it.

The room is large enough for drills, maintenance, and light training, but not for this. Not for two full squads of armed personnel standing shoulder to shoulder, refusing to look at each other.

Hayes arrives with his MACOs in silent formation. They take the right-hand side of the room, automatically lining up against the wall like it’s a parade ground.

The security team is already there. Twenty of them, give or take. Some are standing. Some are seated on crates or benches. None of them move. They don’t introduce themselves. They don’t offer greetings. They just watch. Warily.

Hayes doesn't know their names yet. Just Reed – who isn’t yet present – and Rogers who he’d been sort-of introduced to the day before. 

She’s standing at the front of their group, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her expression is a carefully constructed mask, but her stance screams protector. Challenge. A wall he’s not meant to cross.

Beside her stands a tall redhead; silent, sharp-eyed. A few paces behind them, a broad-shouldered man in a torn undershirt leans back against the lockers, chewing something with slow, deliberate disinterest.

A no-man’s land stretches between the two groups: an unspoken barrier across the middle of the room. Not a single person steps into it.

The air is thick. Tense. Recycled too many times, stale with friction before a single word is spoken.

McKenzie coughs. The attention of the room shifts to her.

“Hi.”

She’s greeted with silence. Rogers narrows her eyes slightly, as if she’s trying to work out what McKenzie means by that.

“Or not.” She mumbles, loud in the silent room.

Reed choses that moment to enter. The shift is immediate. The security team straightens. The MACOs clock the change too, subtly adjusting posture, even if they’re not sure why.

Hayes nods at him, doesn’t offer a smile. 

“This is Lieutenant Reed,” He says, by way of introduction, even though it’s obvious. “Ship’s Tactical Officer. Head of security.”

No one replies. A few MACOs incline their heads. The security officers do not.

Reed doesn’t greet them. He doesn’t bother with introductions either. “You all know why we’re here.”

The security team all nod. Apparently they are capable of reactions. 

“We’ve been ordered into a hostile theatre,” he continues. “The threat is unknown. The danger is not. Starfleet Command has assigned the MACO unit to assist with this mission.”

Someone in the security team mutters something too low to catch. A ripple of suppressed reactions rolls through their half of the room.

Hayes breathes in deeply through his nose, lets the silence hang for a moment before he steps forward. Reed doesn’t exactly give him the go-ahead to speak, but he doesn’t stop him either.

“I expect coordination. Professionalism. We will be sharing resources, sharing responsibilities.”

“Do you think we’re incapable of that?” Rogers asks. 

Something in that half of the room shifts, as though they’re all prepared to defend her. 

“No. I’m simply stating expectations.”

“We answer to the Lieutenant.” One of them says, a hint of something defensive in his voice. 

Hayes had skimmed all their files, but hadn’t been provided with photos to attach names to faces.

The unspoken words are obvious: not to you.

He looks to Reed, expects some sort of backup, but the man just stares him down, coolly. 

Hayes keeps his tone even. “Understood. I’m not here to overstep.”

“Then don’t,” Rogers replies.

There’s something he can’t quite place in her voice. Something that seems to compliment the way the entire team are only-just angled towards Reed, regardless of who is speaking. 

For a moment, no one moves. Reed still hasn’t said a word since his opening statement, and Hayes realises, abruptly, that he’s the one being evaluated here. Not his unit. Not the mission parameters. Him. And not by the MACOs, but by the twenty officers across the room who don’t blink, don’t speak, don’t break rank, not in formation, but more unified than any squad Hayes has ever commanded.

“I’ll be liaising directly with Lieutenant Reed,” Hayes says, voice steady. “And Ensign Rogers, as second.”

He pauses to gesture to the woman in question, for the benefit of his own team, sees a few of them tilt their heads, appraising. They might be being judged, but they can judge right back. It’s a vindictive thought. Not necessarily conducive to the situation and he scolds himself quietly. 

His statement at least gets a nod of acknowledgment from the redhead beside her: Zhao, maybe. Rogers had named her as the one sent to retrieve Reed the day before.

“We’ll conduct joint drills starting tomorrow,” Reed says finally, his voice dry. “Gear alignment. Combat protocols. Boarding procedures. If you’re not on rotation, you’re expected to be present.”

“We run our own formations,” someone from the MACO side puts in – Ramirez, Hayes thinks with a sigh.

“Then run them elsewhere,” Rogers snaps, quick as a whip.

A low murmur runs through the security team, fast and flickering. The MACOs stiffen, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t matter how professional they are – they weren’t expecting this. Not hostility, exactly, but this defensiveness . This closed circuit. A team that functions like a single creature, curled around a fresh wound.

Hayes lifts a hand slightly, a silent gesture for Ramirez to stand down.

Reed still doesn’t react to the undercurrent. He simply tilts his head, gaze flicking over the MACO squad.

“Any questions?” he asks.

None are voiced.

“Good. Ensign Rogers will provide a schedule for integration. And Major Hayes…” He glances back at Hayes, expression unreadable. “You’ll forward a list of your personnel’s qualifications before tomorrow. Tactical preferences. Deployment records. Anything I haven’t already been given.”

Hayes nods once. “Of course.”

Reed looks at neither group. “Dismissed.”

The word isn’t shouted. It’s barely louder than conversation level. And yet, both halves of the room move at once.

The security team breaks formation like smoke, moving in a coordinated drift, dispersing into pairs and clusters, heading toward lockers, gear racks, or the exits. The MACOs remain more contained. More traditional. Hayes sees a few of his people trading looks with the security officers, sizing them up, exchanging silent evaluations that are equal parts interest and challenge.

Rogers doesn’t leave. She waits. Watching Hayes. As if daring him to follow her out.

He doesn’t.

Reed turns on his heel and leaves without another word. The doors hiss shut behind him. 

“Okay,” McKenzie says under her breath as they return to the MACO corridor. “So we’re not friends.”

Hayes just exhales slowly and begins mentally rewriting the next three days’ worth of drills.

“It’ll pass.” He tells them, without conviction. “They’ll get used to us.”

*

There’s a week and a half of slowly decreasing tension that seems to support Hayes’ belief.

And then they’re told to get ready for an away mission.

Reed drops by without fanfare, gives the basic details to Rogers, and leaves again. Hayes grits his teeth against the slight, but doesn’t say anything. Just moves over to watch her survey her team.

“All right,” she says. “Four of us. Two of them. The Captain and Ensign Sato.”

A round of nods in response. No one questions the distribution. No one asks why it’s still mostly them.

“Patel. Hunter. Zabel. Castillo.”

The four nod, already moving to prepare. Weapons and kit come out of lockers with practiced ease. For all their faults – and Hayes still isn’t sure what those are – the security team is well-organized. Efficient. Tight.

Rogers turns to him. “Terrain’s rocky. They’re beaming down instead of using the shuttle, so hiking will probably be required.”

“Okay.”

She speaks quickly, like her brain is moving faster than her mouth can keep up. Her eyes flick, calculating.

“From the files you sent, I think you and Walker would be the best fit.”

“Sure.” It catches him off guard – not the choice, but the speed with which she’d processed the files, memorized the logistics, parsed the terrain.

He glances over. “Walker! You and me. We’re with the security team.”

There are quiet murmurs of approval from the MACOs – back slaps, a bit of half-contained pride. Hayes hears someone mutter something about boots on alien soil. Walker grins. First MACOs on the surface. A milestone.

When he glances back at Rogers, her mouth is tilted slightly up. Not a smile, exactly, but close enough to count.

The moment doesn’t last.

The atmosphere shifts the instant the door hisses open again.

Reed enters like a thunderhead: not fast, not loud, but so charged that the air itself tightens.

Rogers is at his side in an instant. Hayes notices the way she positions herself, like muscle memory. But Reed doesn’t look at her. And even in the short time Hayes has known them, that feels wrong.

The security team freezes. Patel pauses with a phaser half-holstered. Hunter’s still tugging at his boot strap.

Reed doesn’t waste time.

“There’s been a change.”

His voice is too measured. Too flat.

“The Captain has decided the away mission will consist solely of MACO personnel.”

Silence. Heavy. Hayes feels it drag the oxygen out of the room.

Behind him, one of the security officers lets out a low, disbelieving breath. Patel swears under his breath.

“Wha–” Rogers flounders, just for a moment. Then she catches herself. “With respect, sir, that’s–”

“Not my decision,” Reed cuts her off. “But it’s final.”

“They don’t know the terrain protocols.” Her voice rises slightly, not defiant, but hurt. “They haven’t trained with our away teams. They don’t know the shuttle fail-safes. Or the relay patterns. Or the atmospheric sync procedures–”

“Then teach them,” Reed snaps. “Or are you disagreeing with the Captain’s orders?”

The room flinches.

It’s not yelling. But it cuts. The kind of anger that's carved into stone by everything it’s holding back.

Hayes watches the tension ripple through the team. Watches Patel glance at the phase pistol in his hand, then shove it back into its locker with deliberate force.

“They have no practical training,” Rogers says again, quieter now. Still standing her ground, even as her voice dips.

Reed glances at her. Just a glance. But it’s enough to show the weight of what he’s swallowing back. His jaw works once, tight. Then he looks away.

“I want you prepped and ready within the hour,” he says. Flat. Cold. “Dismissed.”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The door hisses shut behind him, sealing in the silence.

No one speaks for a long moment.

Then Castillo, low: “Well. That’s new.”

The team gravitates to Rogers like they always do — like she might still be able to change it.

“Emma, this is ridiculous,” one of them mutters, low, like Hayes isn’t meant to hear it.

Rogers doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. She looks somewhere past the lockers. Her jaw is tight. Her eyes are unreadable.

“Those are the Captain’s orders,” McKenzie offers, from Hayes’ side. “We can’t argue with those.”

The glare she receives from half the security team could melt metal.

Hayes doesn’t interrupt. Just watches.

Watches the weight settle across them all like a shroud. Watches the way their eyes flick to the gear they’ve just been told not to carry. At the MACOs, lined up too straight. Too clean. At the mission that’s no longer theirs.

It’s not mutiny. Not even open defiance. It’s something quieter. Older. Something sacred being cracked.

Because they were the ones trusted to go. The ones who bled first. The ones who knew how to get the Captain home.

Now, apparently, they’re not even good enough to go.

“Well,” Hawkins says, eventually, dry and brittle, “guess he just wants the best at his back.”

Silence.

Rogers doesn’t look at him. Her expression is tight with something not quite grief. Not quite anger. Something bitter.

Her mouth twists. Not a smile.

“I’m only going to tell you the protocols once,” she says. “So you better be the best at remembering.”