In the Quiet Between Alarms
Posted on Wed Nov 12th, 2025 @ 4:46pm by Lieutenant Patrick Ryan M.D.
464 words; about a 2 minute read
Mission: Wolf in the Fold: Hide and Seek
The office lights were dimmed to half, just enough illumination to keep his eyes from aching during report work. The rest of Sickbay was still; most of the staff were on break, and any patients currently under monitoring were stable. For the first time in a long while, Patrick had space to think.
And he hated it.
The PADD on his desk displayed the latest post-incident medical summaries—the fallout from the medical emergency that had taken Rylan out of command.
Patrick still couldn’t think about that without a twist in his gut.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. The reports blurred slightly. The new Captain—Erik Norsgaard—had sent down several requests for strategic updates and departmental readiness assessments.
Rylan trusted people to do their jobs. Norsgaard wants paperwork to prove it.
Patrick took a slow breath and reached for the stylus to sign the next report.
His hand jerked.
Just a tremor—small, quick, almost delicate.
The stylus slipped and bounced off the desk.
Patrick froze.
He stared at his hand like it belonged to someone else.
The tremor was faint, barely perceptible—but undeniably there. His fingers twitched a second time, a tiny betrayal masked as fatigue.
“No,” he murmured to no one.
He flexed his fingers. Rolled his wrist. Shook out the tension.
When he reached down to pick up the stylus from the floor, he deliberately used his other hand.
Just tired.
Too many shifts. Too much stress. Too many memories of alarms and flashing lights and medical chaos with no time to breathe.
Just tired.
He sat back up, stylus in hand, and tapped it against the PADD screen. His handwriting line jumped—just a fraction of a centimeter.
Patrick snapped the stylus down on the desk harder than he meant to.
He looked toward the office door. Still closed. Good. No witnesses.
His jaw flexed.
He pressed the heel of his palm into the desk, leaning forward. His reflection stared back at him in the thin monitor screen—controlled, stern, exhausted.
You are not falling apart.
He adjusted the sleeve of his uniform, tugging it lower to hide the tension in his wrist. With his steadier hand, he resumed typing the report, fingers moving automatically through the medical jargon.
The tremor stayed.
Controlled.
Contained.
Hidden.
He didn’t add a note about it to his own medical file.
He didn’t schedule a scan.
He didn’t breathe a word.
Patrick finished typing the report, saved it, and pulled up the next one, burying himself in work until the shift timer chimed.
He stood, PADD tucked under his arm, and before leaving the office—
He flexed his affected hand once more.
No one saw.
No one would.
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