Desensitized

Posted on Mon Mar 2nd, 2026 @ 2:55am by Commodore Wilkan Targaryen & Lieutenant Amber Laurell
Edited on on Wed Mar 4th, 2026 @ 1:20am

1,942 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: 7a. Guile - Short Treks
Location: Ready Room, U.S.S. Enterprise
Timeline: 2439-08-13, 14:30

It hadn’t been so long ago that Amber had stood outside the Ready Room with uncertain news, now she stood outside simply to drop in and offer what any good Counsellor would for their Commanding Officer, to listen and if necessary offer an opinion or advice. Pressing the chime she waited for admittance before entering.

“I hope I’m not intruding on your peace and quiet, Sir” Amber smiled warmly. “It’s a rarity to get a moments peace for any CO. I thought I’d come and see if there’s anything I can do for you, I’m not just ships Counselor I’m also here to be your sounding board, to listen and to advise where necessary.”

Wilkan didn't look up from his computer console immediately. The Commodore's eyes were fixed on a schematic of the Enterprise’s primary power grid, old memories flooding back from his days as a Yard Engineer informing his work as he tried to trace the source of a localized energy fluctuation. The silence in the Ready Room was heavy, broken only by the faint, comforting thrum of the Warp Core. While Wilkan often preferred the silence to conversation, sometimes he knew it was unavoidable. Tapping a sequence of commands into the computer terminal, the Commodore pulled back and straightened his posture. He looked at Amber, his expression characteristically unreadable. There was no hostility in his gaze, but there was a clinical sharpness.

"Peace and quiet are relative concepts on Enterprise, Counselor," Wilkan said, his voice level and resonant. He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk, though he didn't lean back. "And while I appreciate the warmth of the sentiment, I've found that when things are quiet, it simply means the problems are being quieter."

The Commodore interlaced his fingers on the desk, his focus entirely on her. "I’ve done this a long time," he paused, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head acknowledging her role, "but I'm aware that a crew is not made of tritanium. If you’re offering to be a sounding board, tell me: what is the frequency of the ship currently? I can read the output of the engines from here, but I expect you’ve been reading the output of the people."

Amber nodded. “I have, with recent happenings emotions were very high, but knowing you’re remaining onboard has stabilised those nerves and emotions.” She smiled. “Actually I forgot that you’re part El Aurian, and I didn’t realise that your wife is also part Betazoid. We Betazoids can sense each other a mile off.

Wilkan’s fingers remained interlaced, his expression shifting only slightly at the mention of his heritage and Loatha’s lineage. To most, a Betazoid counselor was a telepathic spotlight; to Wilkan, she was another sensor array, albeit one that tracked the psyche rather than the hard data of a warp field.

"The crew’s stabilization is a functional necessity, Counselor. I’m glad my reputation serves a purpose beyond keeping the helm steady," Wilkan said, his voice retaining its measured, resonant depth. "As for the heritage... biology is just another set of schematics. Loatha’s Betazoid side gives her a diplomatic edge I’ve never quite cared to emulate. I prefer the El-Aurian trait of listening; not to thoughts, but to the echoes of time and the structural stress of the moment." He leaned forward a fraction of an inch, his gaze narrowing with clinical curiosity. "If you sensed her, then you know she isn’t just my wife: she is currently a primary architect of Starfleet’s local strategy. That creates a unique resonance on this ship. The crew sees a Commodore and a newly-minted Vice-Admiral sharing a deck. In my experience, that kind of power concentration can either act as a reinforced bulkhead or a massive gravitational pull that complicates every maneuver."

He paused, studying Amber with the same intensity he’d use on a fluctuating power grid. "Since you can sense the 'frequency' of the people, tell me: is the crew truly stabilized, or are they just holding their breath because they’re intimidated by the rank currently occupying Deck 5? I can fix a warp core with a hydro-spanner, but I can't recalibrate a crew that is too afraid to tell me when the hull is cracking."

“In all honesty Sir, what crew wouldn’t be intimidated by having a Commodore and newly-minted Vice-Admiral onboard their ship?” She paused for a moment. “I don’t for a moment think it would stop anyone from approaching you, everyone knows their jobs and if anything they’ll work harder to keep the Enterprise the flagship she is. Though that in itself adds pressure.”

Wilkan relaxed his hands slightly, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. He noted her point with a slow, deliberate nod. It wasn't about the equations this time; it was about the atmosphere.

"Point taken, Counselor," Wilkan said, his voice losing some of its clinical edge. "I tend to view the ship as a machine, but I haven't forgotten that a machine is only as reliable as the hands maintaining it. If the crew is pushing themselves to prove they belong on the flagship, that's a testament to their pride. I just don't want that pride to turn into burnout." He moved away from the viewport and leaned against the edge of his desk, a more informal posture than he usually allowed.

"Loatha has a way of making people feel like they’re part of a grander design. It’s her gift. My 'reputation,' as you call it, tends to make them feel like they’re being graded. It’s a delicate balance to strike in one household, let alone on one starship." He looked at Amber, his expression shifting into something approaching a dry, weary smile. "If you’re hearing that they’re stable, I’ll trust your ear, but keep a close watch on the younger officers. They’re the ones most likely to try and 'over-torque' themselves to catch the Admiral’s eye or avoid the Commodore’s scowl."

“Don’t worry Sir, I’ll keep an eye, as well as my senses, alert for any problems.” Amber responded. “Being the daughter of a retired Admiral, I understand the pressure to perform all too well. Not that I let that translate to the here and now, more when I was at the Academy. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your work Sir.”

Wilkan offered a small, appreciative nod. The shared context of being an "Admiral's child" seemed to bridge the gap between his command chair and her counselor’s sofa. It was a reminder that even the most complex components of a crew had their own manufacturing history.

"I suspect that shared history makes you more effective at your job than most, Counselor. You know where the stress points form before the alarm even sounds," he said, his voice warm enough to be genuine but still carrying the weight of his office. "Dismissed. And Amber, thank you for the 'weather' report. I’ll try to keep the scowling to a tactical minimum."

Amber grinned and nodded. “Thank you Sir.” With that she headed on her way.

As the doors hissed shut, Wilkan didn't immediately turn back to the monitor. He stayed leaned against the desk, letting the hum of the ship settle around him. He thought about what she’d said: the pressure of the flagship, the intimidation of the rank. It made him smile.

He glanced at a small digital frame on his desk showing Loatha and their children. He lived in a house of giants, and he was well aware of the shadow they cast. His wife was now his direct superior; her superior was his own father, Fleet Admiral Dazad Targaryen. To the crew, it was a legacy of unparalleled strength. To Wilkan, it was a closed circuit. Every decision he made was vetted by the woman he loved and overseen by the man who had raised him. It was an alignment that required him to be both a husband and a soldier without ever crossing the frequencies. It was going to be a challenge, but it was going to be a lot of fun.

He let out a long, quiet breath and finally stood up, smoothing the slight wrinkles on the working uniform that he preferred to wear over the more formal versions. He began gathering his gear, preparing for the transport over to Deep Space 9. The interrogation of Lezku Opra was a high-priority mission and Wilkan intended to turn those keys personally. He was going alone this time, knowing that he would need to be the one to break Lezku’s resolve if they were to get anywhere.

He was reaching for his PADD when the terminal on his desk chirped with a priority signal. It wasn't a Starfleet frequency. The encrypted header bore the distinct digital signature of a Romulan Republic vessel. Tapping the control, a message played:

"Jolan tru, as the Romulans say. Been quite a ride, this one. General Krennek has just been shipped off to Fed custody, along with his crew and that Bajoran scam artist. She had Sora a bit worried, that one. Glad to hear she's found a good home with your crew. How about you pop over to Ourainavassa for a little post-op debrief? Or, if you don't want to come to a Romulan ship, I could always come visit you on Enterprise. I've got a few bottles I'm sure you'd love to try, old friend. We'll be here a few more days while we fix the cloak and the collateral damage that caused after the overload. Nothing major, but still. Let me know."

Wilkan listened to the message, a rare, genuine spark of amusement. The reference to the Bajoran scam artist, a variable he’d been glad to hand off, reminded him that while he was busy sweeping up the glass on the Enterprise, his counterparts in the Republic were doing the same on their side of the pylon. He tapped a rapid response onto the console, preparing his own message in response.

"Invitation accepted. While the Ourainavassa is a fine vessel, the Enterprise has the advantage of a stable gravity well and a replicator that actually understands the nuances of Vulcan tea. Not to mention, I’d like to see those bottles you’re holding hostage. Beam over to Transporter Room 3 immediately. I have an interrogation scheduled on the station, but a debrief with you takes priority. Let’s see if your intel matches the wreckage I’m currently sorting through. Jolan tru, Freya."

He sent the message and checked his chronometer. He would have to push the meeting with Lezku Opra back by at least an hour, but he didn't mind the delay. Wilkan tapped his communicator, "Targaryen to Transporter Room 3. We have a priority guest arriving from the Ourainavassa. Subadmiral Mannerheim. Escort her directly to my Ready Room." He closed the channel before an answer could be given.

Wilkan stood by the expansive windows, watching the stars around DS9. The "closed circuit" of his life (the Admiral-father, the Vice-Admiral wife) felt a little less restrictive with an old friend coming aboard. It was a different kind of frequency, one that didn't require him to be a legacy or a subordinate, but simply a commander comparing notes in the aftermath of a storm.

He turned back to the door, a faint, determined smile lingering. "Now," he murmured, "let's see what the Republic really knows about Krennek’s leftovers."

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