Chapter 3

The Breakfast Club was already bustling when Bransen stepped through the double doors.

Starbase 21’s flagship brunch spot had become a favorite for off-duty personnel across the quadrant. Despite its 24th-century context, with replicator-fed kitchen, environmental stabilization, and a zero-waste policy, it had been designed to evoke an early 21st-century Earth eatery. Warm light panels mimicked natural morning sun, soft jazz filtered through the air, and the smell of coffee, real coffee, cut through the synthetic sterility of the starbase.

He paused just inside the threshold, taking it all in; brick-textured walls, hanging plants in hydroponic loops, art that leaned just pretentious enough to pass for authenticity. Oversized diner mugs clinked, waitstaff glided between tables, and behind the counter, a green-skinned barista in a cobalt apron artfully torched the surface of a crème brûlée waffle.

Then he spotted Tobias.

The Trill sat in a corner booth overlooking the central docking ring, bathed in a golden halo from the viewport light. He wore a slate-gray button-down, sleeves rolled, the top two buttons undone to hint at collarbone and spots. His close-fit chinos emphasized his long legs, crossed at the ankle, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, the other scrolling lazily through a PADD.

He looked like he belonged in a menswear campaign… Relaxed Federation Weekend.

Bransen felt suddenly underdressed. His own outfit, a crisp white T-shirt tucked into charcoal trousers with low-profile boots, felt sharp enough on the Canberra, but here? He tugged at the hem of his shirt and headed over.

Tobias looked up as he approached. That same smirk, all glint and teeth.

“You’re five minutes late,” he said, setting his mug down.

Bransen slid into the booth across from him, admiring the sleek lines of the USS Nimrod in the berth next to them. He smirked, thinking of the randomness of circumstances that had brought Tobias from that ship to sitting across from him now.

“I had to put my face back together. You made a mess of it last night.”

“I aim to please.”

They grinned at each other, the air between them warm and charged but easy. Bransen picked up the menu PADD and scrolled briefly. Classic Earth dishes filled the list; omelets, shakshuka, avocado toast, banana pancakes, waffles with real maple syrup.

“I thought this place would be all dehydrated algae and spelt foam,” Bransen said.

“You wound me. This place is an institution. There’s even a two-week waitlist for civilians.”

“Lucky I know someone with connections,” Bransen said.

Tobias lifted his mug. “To connections.”

---

The food arrived quickly: Bransen’s plate stacked with a protein omelet, roasted potatoes, and fresh-sliced pear; Tobias’s with waffles dusted in powdered sugar, a side of bacon, and a second mug of that rich, oily coffee.

Conversation flowed easily as they ate.

Bransen talked about Cornwallis Colony, its windswept coastlines, and rugged inhabitants, the way the ocean smelled after rain and the way the mist lifted on a perfect summer day.

Tobias shared stories of Trill. Not joined, but proud of his lineage. He’d studied linguistics before pivoting to operations; something about starship systems made sense to him. He talked about backpacking across Risa as a cadet, how he’d nearly gotten stranded in a jungle preserve after a bad transporter relay and a worse date.

When Bransen asked about family, Tobias paused just slightly… long enough that Bransen noticed, but not long enough to call it out.

“My parents are still on Trill, both doctors.” Tobias said. “We… don’t talk much. I don’t think I made all the choices they wanted from me. How about you?”

Bransen nodded. “My parents died in a shuttle accident when I was 13, I moved from Cornwallis to live with my older brother on Mars. I hated everything about it at the time, but he really looked after me. We haven’t really stayed close since I joined Starfleet.” He looked off into the distance of the spacedock, thoughts clouding his face.

The moment passed, Tobias ordered a second round of coffee. Bransen asked about his opinion on shuttlecraft upgrades. Tobias countered by teasing Bransen about his taste in uniforms, saying he looked more like he was about to model in a recruitment poster than fly a mission. Bransen rolled his eyes, replying that at least someone should raise the average appearance of the crew. Tobias grinned and leaned in, his voice dropping, telling him he was doing a fine job of it already. Bransen felt the heat rise in his cheeks, laughing it off, and the two of them slipped into a rhythm of easy banter that hovered just shy of open flirting. The tone was light, playful, comfortable.

And then the explosion.

---

It came without warning. A thunderous, concussive roar that cracked through the café’s walls like a physical blow. The window beside them exploded inward in a spiderweb of fractures, the force of it rattling every table in the place. Bransen was already moving, reaching across the table as the shockwave threw them both sideways.

Screams echoed. The lights flickered. The air filled with acrid smoke and the scent of burning composites. Red emergency strobes activated across the restaurant, and from the corner of his eye, Bransen saw a waiter clutching a bleeding shoulder near the service entrance.

As the viewport next to them shattered, emergency force fields snapped into place; shimmering walls of blue energy locking across the open gaps to preserve atmosphere.

Bransen gasped once, twice, rolling upright as the pressure stabilized. He reached over to help Tobias to his feet.

“You good?” he asked, breath tight.

Tobias nodded, dusting fragments of glass out of his blond hair. His eyes were wide, his pulse visible in his neck, but he looked steady. Too steady.

They turned towards the shattered viewport.

Outside, chaos.

The Nimrod was in flames. One of her warp nacelles had been completely sheared off. The missing structure left a gaping cavity in her secondary hull, exposed plasma conduits leaking radiant blue fire into the vacuum. Emergency fields flickered around the damage, but they weren’t holding. A stream of shuttles had already launched from the interior of the spacedock, and small firefighting drones darted through the space like bees.

Bransen froze. “What the hell..?”

“It’s sabotage,” Tobias said. Quiet. Controlled.

Bransen snapped his head toward him. “What?”

Tobias blinked, and his expression shifted so subtly Bransen nearly missed it.

“I mean, it has to be,” Tobias said. “That kind of explosion, in spacedock? Can’t be an accident.”

Bransen stared at him, a flicker of suspicion whispering across his thoughts. The way Tobias had said it. The way he hadn’t looked surprised.

But then Tobias met his gaze again, and the moment passed.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bransen said.

---

The corridors of Starbase 21 had transformed. Red alert lights strobed, emergency crews rushed in organized clusters and smoke drifted through the air, despite atmospheric containment. Across the comm, emergency orders and instructions overlapped.

Bransen and Tobias stuck close together, weaving past civilians and starbase personnel. By the time they reached the nearest transporter room, security teams were already directing people into ordered lines.

“All Starfleet personnel report to your ships immediately. Repeat. All Starfleet personnel report to your ships.”

They exchanged a glance.

“Guess breakfast’s over,” Tobias said.

Bransen’s heart was still hammering from the explosion. But another part of him, buried under years of protocol and training, was kicking into gear. Something had happened. Something big. And he had a feeling this wasn’t the end of it.

Finally, they stepped onto the transporter pad and vanished with a shimmer of light.

---

They materialized into the Canberra’s main shuttlebay. The mammoth space was a scene of controlled chaos.

Dozens of crew were arriving by the minute, some from the station, others from nearby assignments. Deck officers shouted orders over the din. Cargo handlers rerouted pallets. Engineers rushed pre-launch checks.

Bransen and Tobias arrived side by side, just in time to hear the call:

“Clear Lower Deck. All personnel report to Shuttle Bay One, repeat, all personnel report to Shuttle Bay One.”

Crew from every department filed into the space, the noise almost deafening until a loud call cut across the din.

“Captain on Deck!”

Captain Livinia Sihiri strode to the center of the bay, tall and sharp in her black and grey uniform. Beside her, Commander Vallona walked impassively.

The Captain paused as the room quieted. When she spoke, her tone was calm, clipped, unshakable.

“The Canberra is under orders to depart spacedock immediately. We are assuming command of the mission originally assigned to the Nimrod. All further details are classified. Briefings will be issued in staggered tiers per clearance level.”

Her gaze swept the assembled crew.

Bransen felt Tobias shift beside him.

He glanced over, just a flicker, and for the second time that day, saw something in Tobias’s eyes that didn’t quite fit. Anticipation? Recognition? A hint of resignation.

But then Tobias looked away, casual as ever, his hands at his sides.

Bransen frowned. He filed it away. He would think about it later.

“This mission is critical to Federation security.” Sihiri continued. “I trust you all to conduct yourselves accordingly. Carry on.”

“Lieutenant Andrews,” Captain Sihiri called, her voice slicing through the noise as the crew dispersed. “You’ll join the senior staff for the mission briefing at 2100 hours.”

Bransen blinked once, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tobias gave him a sideways glance. Curious. Impressed. Maybe something else.

Bransen didn’t look back.