Marines Being Marines

Posted on Tue Nov 18th, 2025 @ 5:04pm by Captain Wolfe Sean

889 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: Landing Bay / Marine Barracks.

The shuttle pierced the last thin veil of Earth’s atmosphere and drifted into the quiet calm of orbit. Captain Wolfe Sean sat unmoving, hands clasped loosely before him as the dark, familiar outline of the U.S.S. Dreadnought filled the viewport. Even at a distance, the ship seemed… different.

Repair lights traced along her hull. New plating glinted faintly under dock illumination. Engineers maneuvered around her like worker bees around a wounded queen. She looked whole, but he knew better.

Some wounds didn’t show on hulls.

The pilot’s voice drifted back. “Captain Sean, we’re cleared for forward bay docking.”

Wolfe acknowledged with a quiet nod, gaze returning to the ship. The last time he'd wanted to remember the Dreadnought, Admiral S’iraa had been alive, stern, steady, predictably infuriating sometimes for a feline and endlessly dependable. Now there was only the echo of his presence, a silence the ship seemed to carry in its very structure.

The ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss. Wolfe stepped onto the deck, the metallic scent of machinery and fresh repairs greeting him like an old memory. Marines snapped to attention as he approached, but their eyes… their eyes held the same shadow he felt settling behind his ribs.

“Captain on deck!”

He returned the salute, though the motion felt heavier than usual. “At ease.”

For a moment, Wolfe let his gaze sweep the bay. Cargo pallets moving. Techs shouting across scaffolds. Systems humming back to life. Normal operations, but without S’iraa on the bridge, something essential was missing, a stabilizing gravity the crew had relied on more than many realized. Including Wolfe.

“He’d hate seeing us mope around,” Wolfe thought grimly. “Probably growl at us until we straightened our spines.”

He drew in a slow breath.

“Team leaders,” he said firmly, grounding himself in the work ahead, “report to the Tac Wing in one hour. We’ve got new directives incoming, and I want us ready before the Colonel and Major even thinks to ask.”

The Marines moved out, their determination muted but still present, embers waiting to be stoked.

Left alone, Wolfe let his hand brush lightly against the cold bulkhead beside him, a silent acknowledgment to the ship and to the memory of the man who had shaped so much of its spirit.

But the space Admiral S’iraa left behind was vast, and Wolfe intended to honor it with every step forward.

As Wolfe approached the barracks, he heard the noise before the doors even slid open, bootfalls, laughter, the clatter of gear, the unmistakable sound of Marines settling back into their routines. The moment the doors parted, a few heads snapped up, followed by that instinctive shift toward discipline.

“Captain on—”

“Nope,” Wolfe cut in sharply, raising a hand. “Finish that sentence and you’re cleaning weapons racks for a week. As you were.”

A ripple of smirks and suppressed grins passed through the room. The tension eased instantly.

He barely stepped inside before Corporal Hansen, barely twenty-two, built like he’d been carved from stubbornness and protein supplements, called out from a weight bench.

“Captain Sean! Sir! Tell me the rumors aren’t true.”

Wolfe paused mid-stride, arching a brow. “Which rumors, Corporal? The ones about your last fitness test? Because those are true.”

The room burst with quiet laughter.

Hansen shook his head quickly. “No, sir. I mean the rumors about your partner. We caught a segment of hers while you were dirtside.” His expression turned dramatically dreamy. “Sir, with all due respect… how does a man like you—”

“Hansen,” another Marine groaned, “the Captain’s been back five minutes. Five.”

This only emboldened the younger Marine. “I’m just saying, sir, she’s… well… she’s very beautiful.” He gestured vaguely as if beauty were a smoke he could grab. “The whole barracks agrees.”

Wolfe exhaled through his nose, the hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Corporal, I’m going to give you one chance to stop talking before you dig a hole so deep we’ll lose you in the ventilation system.”

But Private Nayla, a willowy Andorian with antennae already perked mischievously, jumped in before Hansen could retreat.

“Captain, she’s not wrong. Your partner’s last segment had half the junior company planning to transfer to news ops.”

More laughter.

Wolfe crossed his arms. “Good. Maybe they’ll learn to speak in complete sentences while they’re at it.”

A few Marines whistled. Hansen held a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Sir, we’re just saying, we’re proud of you.”

“Very proud,” Nayla echoed, antennae bobbing.

"Well it certianly isn't for my rugged good looks that's for sure." Wolfe shook his head, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him. “Get it all out now. Because in exactly—” he checked the chrono on the wall “—thirty-six minutes, you’re all reporting to the Tac Wing, and I promise you, no one’s going to be thinking about news presenters when we’re done.”

Groans filled the room.

Wolfe turned toward his office, pausing just long enough to throw over his shoulder, “And Hansen… tell the barracks to stay out of my personal life.”

“Yes, sir!” A pause. “…but she really is”

“Hansen!”

“Stopping now, sir!”

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