Chapter Text
Kirk felt especially warm as he stepped into the soft glow of the Farragut’s transporter room. “Is it hot in here to you, Banks?” he asked, turning to the transporter chief as he stepped onto the central pad.
They paused, thinking for a moment. “No,” Banks replied definitively, “not to me, sir.”
Kirk paused too. Less than a month ago, he’d just been another member of the crew — he, Banks, and a handful of others took part in semi-regular interdepartmental get-togethers they’d referred to as “shit-shooting” (being not quite official enough, and far too rowdy, to be called a “meeting”) — but now, everything was was slightly skewed to his new reality. Jim had been referred to as “sir” in various roles over the years, but there was a new weight to the word now that he was first officer. He often prided himself on his ability to be comfortable in all situations, but found the prospect of boarding the Borman, in this moment, to be slightly anxiety-inducing.
“Energize,” Kirk requested with a nod, trying to regain his composure as he departed.
“Aye, sir.”
There was that word again — and then he was gone.
Kirk arrived in a transporter room near-identical to the one he’d left, apart from some aesthetic differences. The Farragut’s warm-toned ambience was replaced with the stark white light of the Borman, the paneling on the walls pulsing as he materialized aboard. Though the room was definitely colder than the one he’d departed from, that over-warm feeling persisted — which he then identified as anxiety.
Kirk immediately recognized the man awaiting his arrival as the Borman’s first officer. Their prior viewscreen communications had done no justice, however, to just how imposing the figure before him truly was. The middle-aged man, tall and lean, held a concentrated expression in his prominent brow. Creases of age lined the man’s intimidating face everywhere except the latitude in which he would, perhaps, smile. No such creases tarnished his impeccably pressed formal gold uniform nor was a hair out of place in his high and tight graying hairline. Kirk suddenly felt underdressed and wondered if the senior officer had worn formalwear to create this effect intentionally.
“Lieutenant Kirk, welcome to the Borman,” the man enunciated with an authoritative tone.
“Lieutenant Commander Wescott,” he nodded, trying to match the formality as he stepped down off the transporter pad and shook the man’s hand firmly, “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Thank you for having me.”
Wescott nodded and turned on his heel without another word. Kirk followed. The empty hexagonal halls extended at a slight curve ahead of them as they walked side-by-side, the senior officer treading deliberately and with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Lovely ship you keep here, Lieutenant Commander,” Kirk smiled genially, “I read in your file that you’ve held the title of first officer for, what was it…” He knew how many years Wescott held on the Borman and other ships, but figured that the officer may want to add his accomplishment to the conversation. To his surprise, Wescott did not interject. He decided to finish his own sentence. “15 years… across many commissions.”
“I see they still teach reading comprehension at the Academy,” Wescott replied curtly, “It’s a fine ship. Orderly, as I like it. Though, I have more work to do before it is up to my standards, as I have only been on this particular vessel for two years.” He halted as they approached an end to the corridor. “You will now take notes on how I conduct a briefing.”
Caught off guard by the sudden insult and directive, Kirk felt his thoughts stall for a moment. “I am here to learn from you, sir. I’ll be sure to take diligent mental notes of the proceedings.”
Wescott made a dissatisfied sound in his throat as he turned to walk into the conference room. A woman, a nurse identified by her white uniform, stepped out into the hall and nearly collided with the first officer.
“Oh! Sorry, sir,” she squeaked nervously, “We’re all waiting for the briefing —” her eyes widened, flustered, as she added, “I mean… we’re ready for you, sir.”
The discomfort in the nurse’s voice was audible, but Wescott seemed, to Kirk, to take no notice. Kirk tried to keep a good-natured smile on his face to ease the tension, despite the second-hand embarrassment creeping into the corners of his mouth. The woman’s face blanched as her superior seemed to puff with indignation. Her eyes flitted uneasily between the two first officers before her.
“Ready, Vega?” Wescott pressed, adding some venom to her name, “Then where are you off to?”
“I just…” she began, “Nevermind, I’m ready, sir.”
“Very well,” he stated, extending a hand as if to invite — or, more likely, order — her into the conference room.
Flustered, she entered, walking past Wescott at a wide berth. Kirk, never a bystander, matched her pace. “Hi, I’m a visitor here,” he remarked kindly, wanting to extend a friendly gesture after the reprimand, “James Kirk; new first officer on the Farragut. Vega, was it?”
Distractedly, she made eye contact with Kirk and nodded her head before walking off to sit with her colleagues at the end of the table.
Wescott raised an eyebrow, and indicated for Kirk to join him at the head of the table. A hush fell over the room as the first officer scanned the faces of the assembled crew. Kirk settled next to the woman whose triple-striped gold uniform sleeves indicated her to be the captain. He’d read up on her, too: Elsa Moneaux had been head of the Borman for a couple of years now, having captained various other Starfleet vessels over her career (but never settling on a single ship, it seemed), most often paired with Wescott on those other ships, too.
The first officer addressed the group. “Before we begin, I would like to introduce Lieutenant James T. Kirk of the starship Farragut; he will be shadowing me as part of training for his new commission.”
Kirk stood, smiled and waved genially to the crew, who returned no such pleasantries. He settled back into his seat in a silence that hung in the air like an unpleasant smell. He made eye contact with Captain Moneaux, who gave him a polite smile that leaned more toward a grimace. Yikes, he thought.
Wescott got back to business. “An allied world, Medula, has requested our help in assessing the effect of a new object in their orbit. Their scientists have asked for a detailed report on its features. We will record its mass and chemical makeup and develop models based on these observations to predict planetary changes, if any, that may be caused by the asteroid. If catastrophic changes are assumed by our simulations, Starfleet and Medula’s leaders have given us clearance to make remediations,” he addressed the group with a flat, prescriptive tone, “We will be conducting our analysis from the Borman and if determined safe, samples will be taken from the surface by a vetted investigatory—” His narrative stalled. “Do you have a question for me, Mr. ch'Fala?” He directed the pointed question to a blue-uniformed Andorian science officer seated near the end of the table.
ch'Fala quickly stopped his side conversation with the lanky officer next to him and sat up straighter. “No, sir,” he responded, almost reflexively, with a strained voice.
Kirk hadn’t even noticed this non-intrusive side conversation, and wondered if it really needed to be called out in front of everyone; in all likelihood, the two were speaking about the upcoming assignment. They were professionals in Starfleet after all, not schoolchildren.
“You will keep your eyes on me and your mouth shut during briefings unless called upon,” Wescott demanded sharply..
“Yes, sir,” Mr. ch'Fala replied, keeping steady eye contact with his superior.
Wescott held eye contact too, until the moment became palpably uncomfortable. He finally let his gaze scan the rest of the group again as he concluded the meeting, “Duties have been assigned. Details will be sent to you shortly. I expect high performance from each and every one of you. Dismissed.”
The group quickly began to disperse. Some crewmembers hurried out of the room as soon as Wescott dropped his gaze, while others exchanged unreadable expressions as they quietly shuffled out. Kirk noticed that the nurse and the Andorian — Vega and ch'Fala — appeared to share the same mix of humiliation and anger on their faces as they left. Wescott waited until all who remained in the ready room were himself, Kirk, and Captain Moneaux.
“There you have it,” the first officer smiled an unfamiliar and uncomfortable smile.
“There… I have it,” Kirk repeated with a small chuckle, unsure what to say about the display of superiority he had just witnessed.
“James Kirk, allow me to introduce Captain Elsa Moneaux.”
Moneaux stood, stately in posture and presence. “Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” she delivered in a cool voice.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he expressed kindly.
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” Wescott stated as a courtesy, and left the room.
Moneaux and Kirk were left alone. “So,” she broke the silence, folding her arms in the process, “what do you think so far?”
“Of the ship, sir?” he posed.
She pursed her lips, “Wescott.”
“Oh,” Kirk stalled, not expecting this frankness, “I think he is a very… efficient officer.”
“And a hardass,” she added.
“Well, yes. He reminds me of some of my professors at the Academy. Strict, utilitarian, slightly militant. I mean,” he stalled, hoping to come up with something a bit more diplomatic, “militaristic.”
“Yeah, well these military guys certainly get stuff done,” she laughed a hoarse laugh, “I should know; I served with him in the Klingon War, too. I think I’m one of the only captains that could work with a man like Adrian. In all honesty, he handles aspects of this job that I have little patience for at my age, and he keeps us vigilant.”
“If I may,” Kirk began, “What called you to the leadership track?” He studied her expression, hoping to gain any insight into such a long Starfleet career.
“Oh, you know Starfleet,” she began with a knowing smile, “Often a family business, full of expectations and obligations. One day, you graduate the Academy after hearing your family’s name whispered all around you for years, and the next day, you’re 67 with three captainships under your belt and a war decorating your walls. And now, that family name refers to you and you’re not sure how it happened. Anyways,” she sighed, “what about you?”
“Starfleet is a legacy in my family, too,” Kirk replied.
“Ahh,” she nodded knowingly, “And did you feel ‘called’ to this position?” she finished, adding a sarcastic flair.
“Yes,” he blurted, more as a gut instinct, “My father —”
“Is very proud, I’m sure,” Moneaux finished, “Are you happy here?” she posed with a raised brow and a tilt of her head.
“Of course,” Kirk stated simply, “I have put a lot of hard work into Starfleet.”
“Look, all I’m saying,” the captain started, making a noncommittal gesture, “is that I worked my ass off for years and not until I got to the chair did I have a moment to breathe and think… do I actually want this for myself? Or, is it everyone else who wanted this for me?”
“Wow, I —” he stopped, unsure how to respond.
“Think about it,” she winked as made her way toward the door.