The Promenade was busy, and it was nice. Elena could easily blend in with the traffic as she walked through the shopping center. Above her, a soft glow of the stars streamed down through the overhead windows, Elena stopped and looked out through the viewport. She sat down on a nearby bench. Sipping her peppermint tea, she looked out into space. Her mind was a mile away. The station was stable for now, its life moving steadily just beyond her reach. However, the effects of recent events remained in her thoughts.

Behind her, she heard a distinct set of footsteps approaching her at a rather slow pace. She didn’t turn, but she knew who it was. Jason Okafor, dressed in a casual sweater instead of his uniform, stopped when he saw her. The Captain, usually so composed, lost in thought, made him pause.

“Mind some company, Captain?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t intruding.

Elena looked up, gesturing toward the bench, and patted it with her left hand. “Not at all, Jason. Sit.”

He took a seat, giving her space to speak if she wished. For a moment, neither said anything. The peaceful silence only broken only by the occasional passerby. 

“You’ve been rather quiet lately,” Jason finally said, leaning back. “I imagine there’s a lot on your mind.”

Elena let out a soft chuckle. She twirled her cup absentmindedly. “That’s one way to put it. Eos is standing, barely, but standing. The Romulan situation is under control for now. And yet… it feels like I’ve lost something.”

Jason looked at her for a moment, his expression calm. “Peter?” he asked.

Elena let out a slow breath. Her fingers tightened around her cup as she continued, “Peter. The station. The version of myself I wanted to be.  What I thought I had to do to make all of this work. I don’t know. I think I am finally letting go.”

Jason shifted on the bench, “Letting go isn’t always a bad thing,” Jason said, “Elena, sometimes, we have to make room for something better.”

She turned her head, “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

Jason laughed, “It’s in the job description. Head Counselor, part-time amateur philosopher.” His quick reply brought a genuine smile to her face. 

“I appreciate it, Jason,” she said after a moment. “I haven’t really talked to someone in a while.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Well, you’ve always had someone to talk too, as long as I’m here.”

The words were a surprise. They were unexpected because of the warmth behind them. For a moment, she let her guard down just enough to say, “Thank you,” she said. “That means more than I can say.”

Silence returned as they both sat there, Elena sipping her tea. Together, they watched the stars outside the viewport. There was something unspoken between them, something not yet defined but present.

“The stars seem brighter tonight,” Elena whispered after a long pause.

Jason smiled, “Maybe because you’re finally looking at them instead of through them.”

She turned her head, “You might be right about that.”

For a few moments longer, they sat there, until Elena finally spoke, “I’ve been thinking,” she began, “About everything that’s happened… how much I’ve changed since taking command. I used to believe my job was to protect the station. Now, it feels more like I’m just hanging on, struggling to make sense of it all. As it slips through my fingers.”

“Change doesn’t have to be bad, Elena. Sometimes, change is the only way we survive.” He paused, clearly weighing his next words carefully. “But I can see the weight you carry. It’s not just about the station, is it?”

Elena sighed, “It’s not. It’s about what I’ve lost. It’s my sense of self, maybe even my faith in what I’m doing here. And it’s about what’s still ahead… things I can’t control.”

Jason was quiet for some time before he spoke. “Not everything needs to be under control,” he said. “Sometimes, you have to trust that things will develop as they should.”

Elena looked at the reflection of herself in the glass. There was so much uncertainty still ahead for everyone, the station, and herself. Before she could respond, her comm badge sounded. “Captain, we’ve received an encrypted transmission. Priority message from Starfleet Command.”

Elena straightened, instinctively reaching for her comm. “On my way. Mitchell out,” her brief moment of peace was over.

Jason watched her with a smile, “Take care of yourself, Captain. Whatever happens next, remember that you’re not alone.”

Elena gave him a small nod, her finger briefly tightening around her cup, “Thank you, Doctor Okafor.” She stood, straightened her uniform and with a last glance at the stars, headed out. Far away, under a very different sky, another figure moved through the beaches of Risa.

The sun was setting along the waves of the southern coast, casting a red glow along the sandy beaches. Risa was a paradise. Risa was a place of peace and the occasional black market deal in the shadows beneath the surface. For many, it was a getaway from the chaos of life. But for one man, it was the perfect cover.

Mitchell Valerio walked casually down the boardwalk along the coastal city. His new identity was carefully crafted, an entrepreneur with ties to various financial circles. He was clean-shaven, with his blond hair combed back in a more chic style. His clothes were casual, gone were the expensive suites. He was just another face in the crowd.

He walked into a small establishment that sat on a quieter stretch of the coast. “The Tidal Wave” was known to locals as a hidden gem. This was the place you went to unwind from the day. It was also the place to talk business away from the eyes of the law. Mitch knew it well.

The bartender nodded at him, “Evening, Love,” she said, setting a glass down in front of him. “You’re early tonight.”

Mitch smiled, accepting the drink. “Early for a reason. I’m expecting a guest.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Business or pleasure?”

“Both,” he replied as he sipped his drink. “You remember the man I mentioned last week? He’s coming to discuss terms.”

The bartender glanced over her shoulder as the door opened, and in walked a tall man in a nice suit and an absent expression. He was followed by a shorter figure who kept his head down, hands nervously tucked in their coat. The shorter man approached the bar first.

“Mitch,” he said, his voice raspy. “We need to talk.”

Mitch gestured for them to sit, his eyes scanning the crowd. The bartender moved to the back as Mitch looked at the taller of the two, “I assume you’ve thought about my offer?” he asked.

The shorter man hesitated, “We’ve considered it. But we need more guarantees. You’re asking a lot of us.”

Mitch leaned forward as he whispered, “I’m not asking for anything I haven’t already provided. The Federation’s influence is spreading thin; if you don’t act now, someone else will. Think of it as an opportunity.”

“And what makes you think you’ll succeed?” the taller man leaned forward in his chair. 

“Because their game is rigged,” Mitch said, “and I already rewrote the rules.” 

The two men exchanged a glance, clearly weighing their options. “And?”

Mitch’s smile widened, “I have resources they never knew about. I’m not just another player. I’m the one who moves the pieces.”

The shorter man leaned back looking around, “You’re playing a dangerous game. What happens if someone finds you? Can you move it all in time?” He questioned. “You think you can pull this off?”

“I know I can,” came a quick reply. “So, are we in agreement?”

The tall man nodded, “We are. But remember, we’ll be watching you.” He leaned in placing a hand on Mitch’s shoulder, “Don’t make us regret this.”

Mitch took a slow sip of his drink, then stood. “Amateurs,” Mitchell thought. He could see the fear in their eyes, the kind that could be molded if needed. As the two men left, Nichols turned to the bartender, a smile crossed his lips. “It’s all falling into place,” he smiled, almost to himself. “Now… it’s time to remove the last obstacles in our way.” He looked at the two men leaving the establishment.

“Consider it done, Sir,” the bartender smirked, her hands polishing a glass as if she hadn’t just agreed to plan someone’s downfall. As the two shared a drink, a figure walked into the bar, locking eyes with Mitchell.

“Ambrose Nichols,” the stranger called out, his voice sharp and direct.

Before anyone could react, the bartender calmly reached beneath the counter, drew a phaser, and fired a single shot. The figure collapsed to the floor in a heap.

Mitchell picked up his glass and downed its contents. “And they say dead men don’t talk,” he said, setting the empty glass down with a smirk. “Guess I’m the exception.”