In principio: The Question Why

Posted on Sat Jun 27th, 2026 @ 5:52pm by Master Chief Petty Officer Julian Trent

2,858 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Starfleet Enlisted Training Centre, San Francisco, Earth
Timeline: 2360

Starfleet Enlisted Training Centre, San Francisco, Earth, 2360

The office was too bright, which Julian considered unnecessary cruelty considering the state of his head. He had not been drunk when he reported, because even he had limits, but the memory of the last week sat behind his eyes and at the back of his tongue, all stale synthol, real alcohol when someone had been generous, cheap perfume, old faux-cigarette smoke from someone insisting on historical authenticity, and the kind of music that made walls thrum as if the building itself had a pulse. Maybe a week of indulgence without surfacing had…its cost. He sat in the chair opposite the evaluator with one ankle hooked behind the other, loose-limbed and slouched in a way that looked lazy if someone wasn’t paying attention. Julian had learned early that looking relaxed made people either underestimate you or dislike you, and both could be useful depending on the situation. In his early twenties, he was tall and slender, with longish blond hair that had started to darken a little and a face that might not be called dashing, but with potential to become interesting as he got older. But it was the smile, the smirk, the eyes…that was what usually charmed people.

The evaluator across from him was dark, in every sense of the word, with something strikingly non-human about him that showed him not as human, but Betazoid. Those dark, dark eyes betrayed it every time. Dark, curly hair was neatly cut, the lips curved into a small smile that seemed neutral rather than giving anything away. Julian suspected that prettier men had tried to get under the man’s skin, but…it would be a shame not to try.

He had showered before coming in. That had felt important, even if the sonic setting had done very little for the sense that last night was still clinging to him somewhere under the skin. As such, he was clean, groomed in the sense that he had made sure that he was presentable, his jaw freshly shaved apart from the nick just beneath one cheekbone where his hand had not been quite as steady as pride demanded, and the issued training clothes sat on him with an almost artificial pristine sheen. That was the thing about Starfleet kit, he thought as he tugged once at the hem of the shirt, it tried to make everyone look like they had arrived on purpose. Julian had arrived because a week ago he had been sitting on a kitchen counter in York wearing someone else’s shirt, with one bare foot on a cupboard handle and a bottle beside him, and had realised with awful clarity that nobody was going to stop him doing the same thing for the next ten years. So now he was here, because apparently the universe required him to take some dramatic action: preferably with some sort of consequences.

“Julian Trent,” the evaluator said, glancing over the PADD before looking back at him. His voice was level, not unkind, but it had the horrible precision of someone reading from something that believed it knew him. “Twenty-two. Ward of the Federation until age 18. Civilian mandatory education completed. Several behavioural notes in adolescence, no criminal record except the juvenile notes, cautions for public disorder, one gambling concern flagged and resolved, and about 15 years of youth counselling records that in short describes you as verbally intelligent, socially adaptable and prone to escalation when emotionally provoked. Is any of it…incorrect?”

Julian smiled at that, because the other option was to shout and prove that file right. “Well…no, that’s a very elegant way of saying I had a mouth on me and occasionally backed it up with poor judgement,” he said, lifting one hand languidly as if offering him the correction out of grace rather than vanity. The movement made his head pulse, faintly but clearly there, and he lowered his hand again with all the dignity of a man deciding not to make a private medical inconvenience public. “Although, to be fair, poor judgement has done a great deal for my social life,” he added smoothly, letting the smile linger a fraction too long, warm enough to be noticed, not quite an invitation and not quite not one.

“I am sure your social life is very grateful,” the evaluator said, and Julian’s smile sharpened despite the ache behind his eyes because there he was. Not completely without a sense of humour, which was…useful information. He had never played with a Betazoid before. He wondered how much he was feeling from him, or seeing in his head. Didn’t matter. It was interesting regardless. The evaluator’s own small smile remained as he continued talking; “Your entrance assessments show very strong tactical reasoning, spatial awareness, adaptive problem solving and theoretical comprehension. Your written components were strong as well, although your evaluators noted a tendency to rush when bored and overcomplicate answers when a simpler one would have done…in fact one assessor noted that you showed off with the calculations rather than just doing the simpler, more straight forward approach.”

Julian’s smile did not vanish, but it settled into something sharper, more entertained. That sounded about right, unfortunately. He had never struggled to understand things once they were in front of him. If anything, the difficulty was pretending not to see the answer too quickly, or not getting annoyed when other people insisted on walking slowly toward a conclusion he had already reached and grown tired of. Sometimes, his biggest issue was to explain how he got to the answer. Saying it just made sense, so why worry never stood up against school. He gave the evaluator a mild look, the sort that suggested he had mentioned the weather. “I’m flattered. You calling me clever, or is that all Starfleet?”

The evaluator’s eyes stayed on him a second too long. He had noticed the shift, then, and worse, chosen not to press it immediately. Julian decided he should have disliked him on principle, which was unfortunate because he also respected the restraint and wanted to…see what he could uncover from the man. “Why did you enlist?” the evaluator asked rather than answer the question, setting the PADD down on his knee as though they had moved from file to person and Julian was expected to appreciate the distinction.

Julian leant back a little, eyes narrowing for a moment before he huffed a laugh. That was a good question. He wetted his lips and leant forward, hands loosely clasped in front of him. “Well, after a while the sex, drugs and music got boring,” he said, watching his face for the flinch, or the interest, because both told you something useful. “I’m not going to procreate, which removes one traditional avenue of pretending one has contributed to civilisation, and some would argue I lack purpose, or that I am not bettering myself. But apparently Starfleet gives people that. Or at least issues it alongside boots and a tricorder.”

There it was. Not a lie. Not even much of a deflection, really, though he had polished it until it shone, twisted it to sound both neat and messy. And to see people’s reactions…well, that was always the fun bit. Somewhat. So he kept the smile, kept his focus on the man even if his head throbbed with his heartbeat.

“You believe you lack purpose?” the evaluator asked at last, and Julian let out a small laugh, looking away toward the wall display where the Starfleet emblem sat bright and smug above a training centre motto about service and excellence. It was all very clean. That was the thing about institutions. They loved a clean wall and a noble sentence.

“I believe other people have noticed the absence and may eventually become concerned once I get longer in the tooth,” Julian said, turning back to him with a small tilt of his head. “Personally, I was doing very well. I had friends, lovers, social debts in manageable quantities, a passable knowledge of six different belief systems, none of which improved me, and an excellent ability to leave before breakfast.”

“And that became boring,” the evaluator said, not writing anything down yet, which made Julian wonder what he was waiting for.

“Everything becomes boring if you do it often enough with no consequences,” the words came out before Julian had the chance to censor them and he let out a breath of annoyance. He shifted in the chair, not much, only enough to feel the seam of the issued trousers pull against his thigh, and looked down at his hands where they rested loose in his lap. He turned one enough for the light to catch on the glittery holographic effect stamp on there, from one of the clubs he had gone to this week. When he spoke, it was absently. “I woke up one morning and realised no one was coming. No parent, no lover with enough sense to be disappointed in me, no divine revelation, no angry future version of myself kicking the door in. Nothing. Just me, still terribly handsome, still terribly clever, and still doing nothing that would matter if I stopped.”

For once, the evaluator’s expression changed, not just at the words but the emotions behind them. It wasn’t dramatic, he was too trained for it. But it softened him a little bit.

Julian ignored it, because he was now waist-deep in truth and might as well commit to it. He looked at him, and the smile was brief, honest, and lacking sarcasm. “So I enlisted,” he said, as if concluding some fairy tale. “At twenty-two, still hungover from the night before, because apparently I enjoy making life decisions with a headache.”

“And you believe Starfleet will provide consequence?” the evaluator asked, his hand moving to the PADD at last, though he still did not write. Julian could see his thumb resting at the edge, poised, and the old part of him that knew files and notes and administrative judgements watched it with a child’s cold attention.

“I believe Starfleet is very fond of consequences,” Julian said, glancing around the office, at the neat shelves, the regulation display, the chair that had almost certainly been chosen because it was comfortable but not too comfortable. “It has uniforms for consequences. Schedules. Ranks. Entire buildings full of people trained to tell you when you’ve cocked up and how badly.” He leaned forward a little, elbows almost but not quite touching his knees, letting some of the performance drop because he could feel the evaluator had earned at least a mouthful of honesty from him. “I do not need saving, if that’s what you’re circling. I don’t need someone to discover a wound and kiss it better.” His mouth curved then, slight and quick, because he could not quite resist the shape of it. “Though I’ve nothing against kissing in the right context.”

The evaluator gave him a look over the top of the PADD. Not offended. Not tempted. Simply dry enough to sand furniture. “This is not that context.”

“Shame,” Julian said, because the answer came easily, but the smile softened almost immediately as he looked down at his hands again. “I have had clean beds, food, education, medical care and every opportunity a civilised utopian society could throw at a boy who arrived with no one attached. I am grateful enough not to be tedious about it. But I am bored of…there being nothing new. Nothing meaningful. Makes me…not meaningful.”

The words sat there after he finished, heavier than he had meant them to be. Julian could feel his own pulse behind his eyes, the hangover or the honesty, maybe both, and he gave the evaluator a look that dared him to make something sentimental out of it. He did not. He only picked up the PADD properly and made a short note, which was almost worse because it meant he had accepted the answer as data rather than drama. “That is more self-awareness than I expected from how this started,” he said, and Julian smiled again because now he was being funny on purpose. Terrible man. “Although the amount of flirting was…expected. Or warned about.”

“I do try to exceed expectations when it inconveniences people,” Julian said, settling back into the chair again. “Should I say I want to serve the Federation now, or would that feel a little over-rehearsed?”

“It would,” the evaluator said, and there was the faintest suggestion of amusement at the corner of his mouth before he lowered his eyes to the PADD. “But you may come to mean it, eventually.”

Julian considered that, not laughing, but…thinking about it. Something in him resisted it, perhaps because the evaluator had not treated his reasons as foolish, or perhaps because the bright, clean machinery of Starfleet beyond the office door suddenly felt less ridiculous than it had when he walked in. He thought of the kitchen counter, the music, the dark window with his own reflection looking back at him. He thought of the way the thought had arrived, calm and brutal. Is this it, then? And then he thought of the recruits outside with their bags and nerves and polished shoes, all of them waiting to be made into something useful or broken trying. “Maybe,” he said, and because the word felt too naked on its own, he added with a lazy little shrug, “I’ve meant worse things.”

The evaluator made another note, then looked up at him with a directness that made his shoulders want to square despite himself. “You are intelligent, physically fit enough to begin training, socially adaptable, highly capable under verbal and practical testing, and likely to test boundaries until you determine whether they are real. I am clearing you for enlisted training, with recommendation for follow-up after four weeks and structured supervision where appropriate.”

“Structured supervision,” Julian repeated, making a face as he stood because the movement reminded his stomach that it had not forgiven him. He steadied it with a breath and smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt as if the problem had been fabric rather than biology. “That sounds like being shouted at by people with shinier shoes.”

“It often is,” the evaluator said, standing as well, though he did not offer him a hand. Julian appreciated that. “Recruit Trent, one more thing.”

Julian paused near the door, turning back with one hand already close to the panel. “If this is where you tell me to make better choices, I’m going to feel very wounded by the lack of originality.”

“It is where I tell you that charm is not the same as stability,” the evaluator said, and the words struck with enough precision that Julian’s smile stayed in place by effort alone. “It may get you through a door, or out of a reprimand, or into someone’s bed, but it will not carry you through training. It will not make people trust you when they are afraid. It will not make you useful when usefulness costs you something.”

For a moment, Julian was very aware of the room. The brightness, the clean air, the PADD in the evaluator’s hand, the door at his back and the faint throb of blood behind his eyes. He could have made a joke. There were at least three available, all perfectly serviceable. Instead he looked at the man properly, and hated, just a little, that he had got close enough to something true to make silence feel like the better answer. After a moment, he gave him a small nod, not quite respectful but near enough to pass inspection. “Then I suppose I’d better become useful,” he said, and the grin that followed was smaller than the others, less polished, more dangerous because it had something almost sincere underneath. “How hard can it be?”

The evaluator did smile then, not warmly exactly, but with enough humanity to make Julian suspect he had walked directly into a trap and called it a doorway. “Very,” he said, dark eyes shining.

Julian’s grin widened despite the headache, despite the tiredness, despite the small, unreasonable feeling in his chest that might have been anticipation if he allowed it a better name. “Lovely,” he said, tapping the door panel and stepping into the corridor before the evaluator could see how much that pleased him. The noise hit first, boots and voices and bags being shifted from one hand to another, the restless energy of too many new recruits trying not to look uncertain. Julian stood there for half a breath, one hand curling around the strap of his bag, then let go and joined the moving line with his head up and his mouth still curved, as if he had chosen all of this as a joke and not because, for the first time in years, consequence sounded almost like mercy.

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