Close To Home.
Posted on Tue Jan 20th, 2026 @ 3:43am by Captain Wolfe Sean
991 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: Wolfe's Office - Marine Deck
Timeline: En Route to Velis III
The deck beneath Wolfe Sean’s boots hummed with restrained power as the U.S.S. Dreadnought cut through warp, her massive frame carrying her toward Velis III. Even after years in the Marines, the sensation never quite faded, that subtle vibration that reminded him he was hurtling faster than light toward something that could very well go catastrophically wrong.
The briefing replayed in his mind whether he wanted it to or not.
A viral outbreak.
Airborne mutations.
Planetwide exposure risk.
Local hospitals collapsed under the strain.
If containment failed, the entire sector could burn.
Wolfe stood near one of the corridor viewports outside the Marine detachment’s assigned compartment, arms folded behind his back in parade rest. Beyond the viewportl, warp streaked past like pale blue ghosts. Beautiful. Deceptive. The calm before impact.
This was exactly the kind of situation that made his jaw tighten. Because somewhere he knew in the back of his mind, Penelope Haskell would already be circling the story like a hunting raptor.
“Humanitarian crisis on the frontier,” he could almost hear her voice saying, smooth and compelling. “A race against time as Starfleet mobilize.”
She’d leap at it. She always did.
Penelope thrived in chaos. Viewers loved her for it. Command tolerated her because she told the truth. And Wolfe… Wolfe worried because truth had a habit of getting people killed when it traveled faster than security protocols. He exhaled slowly through his nose as he knew even a minute slip, one lax moment and it wouldn't just be the people on the planet facing this outbreak.
She’d push to embed. She always did even mid firefight back on the surface on a previous mission. Flash that smile at the onlookers, cite transparency statutes, public interest clauses, freedom of the press. And somehow, impossibly, she usually won.
His fingers flexed once behind his back.
Velis III wasn’t a battlefield in the traditional sense, but Wolfe had learned long ago that viruses were deadlier than any disruptor. No clear enemy. No lines to hold. Just panic, fear, and the slow unraveling of order.
That meant Marines on quarantine enforcement. Crowd control. Extraction teams. Worst-case scenarios no one liked to say out loud.
And if Penelope were anywhere near this operation…
He shook the thought away and squared his shoulders. Whatever awaited them planetside, his job was simple: protect Starfleet’s mission, protect the civilians, and keep the situation from spiraling beyond containment.
Personal worries had no place on deployment. Still, as the ship surged onward toward Velis III, Wolfe couldn’t help but feel that this mission carried more than just a biological threat.
Some stories spread faster than any virus.
And some people had a way of always finding the heart of them. Wolfe pushed himself away from the viewport and started down the passageway toward the Marine section, boots striking the deck in a steady, deliberate rhythm.
Order. Structure. Motion.
They helped keep the thoughts at bay.
He passed Starfleet personnel moving with purpose, medical officers with padds clutched tight, engineers murmuring about environmental controls and isolation fields. The ship was changing around him, transforming from a warship into a lifeboat.
That always made him uneasy.
Inside the Marine staging compartment, the air smelled faintly of sterilizing agents. His detachment was already gearing up, armor plates laid out with clinical precision. No jokes. No bravado. They’d all read the same briefings. “This isn’t a combat drop,” Wolfe said as he entered, his voice calm but carrying easily.
Several heads turned.
“But don’t let that fool you,” he continued. “Fear spreads faster than any pathogen. When people panic, they stop listening. Our job is to make sure they keep listening.”
A few nods followed. These Marines knew him well enough to hear what he wasn’t saying. No heroes. No press stunts. No mistakes.
After dismissing them to preparations, Wolfe retreated to his small office alcove and activated his personal terminal. An image of her, the face of the news, the envy of many, yet..his.
Penelope Haskell filled the frame, flawless as ever beneath studio lights, dark hair pulled back, eyes sharp with curiosity rather than fear.
She would insist on going.
She would argue that the public deserved to see it.
She would say fear thrived in silence.
And she wouldn’t be wrong.
That was the worst part.
Wolfe had faced Jem’Hadar lines without flinching, stood in the open under disruptor fire, watched friends fall and still carried on because the mission demanded it. Those were risks he understood. Ones he could measure. Plan for. Counter.
A virus didn’t care about courage.
It didn’t care about credentials, or press clearance codes, or how fast a transport lock could be overridden in the name of “one more shot for the story.”
If containment failed… if the pathogen mutated again… if panic broke quarantine…
He exhaled slowly, fingers curling at his sides.
I can’t put armor on her.
That thought hit harder than any battlefield memory.
He imagined her in a civilian mask that wasn’t rated for this strain, standing too close to a triage zone because someone was crying and she needed their words on record. He imagined her touching a railing, adjusting an earpiece, removing gloves for just a second because it was uncomfortable.
Seconds were all it took, but he couldn’t stop her from caring.
That was who Penelope Haskell was. The woman who ran toward collapsing stories while others backed away. The woman who believed that if people could see suffering, they would demand better of the universe.
And if something happened to her on this mission…
Wolfe swallowed hard, jaw tightening.
He wasn’t afraid of Velis III.
He was afraid of standing on a clean, silent deck afterward, watching a broadcast that would never air because its reporter never made it home.
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