Hand It Over

Posted on Tue Jan 6th, 2026 @ 6:31am by Delaney O'Callaghan & Kaelen
Edited on on Tue Jan 6th, 2026 @ 6:32am

Mission: Shackles
Location: Sec Office
Timeline: Not long after Kaelan comes on board
4983 words - 10 OF Standard Post Measure

One of the realities of working security was that, as far as best case scenarios went, a quiet day in the office was technically ideal. A lack of emergency was not something to mourn, and even the escalation to standby was a trajectory not to be coveted unless your motivation was calamity and misfortune. That was probably true of any number of personnel drawn to the profession, of course; in Delaney's case, she was here by dint of managerial shenanigans, not her own maniacal aspirations.

If she was going to be strictly fair about it, being stationed in Security was her own fault. When she'd optimistically pitched her potential as a recent graduate of Logistics and Operations, the young human had anticipated an assignment rich with resource management and process maintenance. What she stumbled into was a stock inventory that included an entire treasure trove of undocumented collectibles and a weapon's manifest that took up twice the data storage it needed with only half the functionality. Building a robust Asset Management System from baseline had been a tad presumptuous, or so she'd been teased about since; at the time, Delaney had done what Delaney always did and delayed worrying about permission until after it was too late.

What had followed had been a permanent relocation to her own little alcove, tucked in the back of the Security offices, where the volume of her music was just about guaranteed to filter out into the corridor if conditions were ripe. Perched as the access point between the main floor and the weapon's vault, it wasn't a very big space but it was hers and, currently, it was positively vibrating from the latest experimentation with Bajoran folktronica. Spread out on the small desk was an assortment of tactical flashlights, arranged vertically in a geometric pattern that did nothing for the process of updating their maintenance tags but would at least make any inadvertant domino-effect well-worth the resulting mess. It was tedious, methodical, necessary work, but Delaney wasn't the type to subscribe to boredom. At the moment, that seemed to involve creating her own light show whilst trying to determine how many flashlights she could hold in each hand.

Kaelen slowed his pace as he approached the security wing, his ridged brow furrowing slightly as a rhythmic, discordant wail began to vibrate through the deck plating. The S.S. Mary Rose was a vessel of character—which was a polite Denobulan way of calling it a functional relic. Well maintained, no doubt, but a relic regardless. To Kaelen, the ship felt like a familiar, if slightly worn, coat. The one your spouse might urge you to replace for having a few holes in its pockets, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so and, besides, you knew where the holes were. The Constitution class had already been long retired when he had been a small child; seeing the opened conduits and hearing the hum of the aging plasma couplings up close felt less like a step back in time and more like a meeting a hero from days of old. However, even an aged hero shouldn't smell quite so much like ozone and disinfectant.

The noise grew louder as he reached the alcove. It was an auditory assault of primal screeches and frantic, digital percussion, occasionally punctuated by a wind instrument that sounded eerily like a sehlat being strangled by a flute. It was a fascinatingly "risque" choice of workplace ambience, and Kaelen found himself genuinely impressed that someone could remain productive amidst such a cacophony. He stepped into the small office, his wide, curious eyes taking in the sight of the woman with her back turned.

She seemed to be conducting some sort of private ritual with a dozen flashlights, ominously waving them at the ceiling and various bits of stationery in her immediate vicinity. For the briefest of moments the Denobulan wondered if black magic had replaced traditional engineering, but then forced his attention back to reality. Kaelen adjusted his grip on his PADD, waiting for a break in the percussive madness. When none came, he cleared his throat—a sound lost to the wailing—and finally raised his voice with a pleasant, diplomatic projection.

"Excuse me?"

Delaney didn't so much jump as fall victim to her own enthusiasm for multitasking. A smooth swivel to greet her visitor while simultaneously reaching to dial back the folktronica, all while her hands were still trying to maintain the structural integrity of the flashlight-clusters she had been wielding, became an overly-ambitious attempt at a graceful three-task pivot that proved too much for her manual dexterity; as she offered a bright, welcoming grin toward Kaelen, her fingers betrayed her, and the numerous cylindrical objects she had been juggling left her grasp in a rather ballistic manner.

The result was spectacular. A flurry of pen lights went airborne, clattering against the deck with the sound of metallic hail. One wayward cylinder saw fit to strike the carefully arranged geometric pattern on her desk, triggering a further chain reaction. Kaelen watched as the domino effect took hold, sending a wave of tactical lights rolling toward the edges of the table. Despite the events seemingly unfolding in slow motion, Kaelen managed to only pin down one of the lights with his palm before it had the opportunity to join its brethren, who were already seeking a new life on the wide plains of the floor.

"A masterful display of physics," Kaelen remarked, his smile warm and genuine as he handed the saved light back to her. "Though I would hazard a guess that spirits of gravity and inertia were not completely appeased by your ritual."

Far from embarrassed, it took a moment to understand that the slight wheeze that escaped the Delaney-shaped puddle draped across the desk and left to dangle, arms-first, so that long fingers could stretch outwards in sheer obstinance to battle the futility of trying to roll a recalcitrant flashlight back in her direction, was actually laughter. It lead to the immediate suspicion that the entire incident, if not orchestrated, was at least expected, if not eagerly anticipated.

"Cheeky sods have usually got too much to say, so I wouldn't be surprised."

The woman—Delaney O'Callaghan, if his list was correct—looked like a whirlwind of organized chaos in the most high-spirited sense of the word. Kaelen found her unbound energy quite refreshing compared to the stiff-collared Ranger bureaucrats he had left behind at headquarters. Vigilantes even having bureaucrats in the first place was already some sort of Q-Level paradox to him. Angry yet dour. Driven yet soulless. While she was, in essence, the ship's 'gun librarian,' Kaelen felt a sudden kinship with her; she possessed a palpable pulse of life that was far more to his liking than the cold efficiency he’d grown used to in the sterile corridors of Starfleet.

He held up his PADD which showed a checklist that was currently three-quarters of the way to completion before continuing. "In all seriousness though, I do apologize for the intrusion. I am Kaelen, the newest addition to the diplomatic efforts of the Mary Rose. I am currently conducting my introductory rounds—verifying my quarters, checking in with the Doctor, and, most importantly, ensuring I am no longer an armed man."

By now, the redhead's face was close to matching her hair colour. Forced by dint of manners, if nothing else, to ditch her dangling in favour of a more upright posture, Delaney did nothing to mask an elongated groan as her stomach muscles were left to do the hard work of pulling her upright to flop back into her chair. A bright smile, ripe with smug satisfaction, was followed by the triumphant presentation of a single flashlight held up for inspection; a change in tactic saw an outstretched foot attempt to double the recaptured total to two.

"We've got an official diplomatic stance now, do we?"

Tap, tap, tap. The sole of her shoe slapped around in search of a likely target, leg extended beneath the desk to full length.

"One could make the argument," she continued, ducking sideways just enough to peer in search of her intended quarry, "that arming ourselves is very near top of our list of current mediation strategies. Actually," Delaney paused, fixing the far wall with a stare that slowly morphed into a faintly dawning realisation. "That's probably part of the problem. A-ha!"

Scrabbling once more, she plucked a second torch from the floor and set the pair of them, lens-down, onto the tabletop. Without much consideration for the others littering the space, Delaney finally switched focus to allow just enough residual wits for her to grin and offer an introduction of her own.

"Delaney O'Callaghan, sacred keeper of the vault. You've probably come to the right place, on a good day, at least."

A hand, extended in a sweep towards the secure-yet-otherwise-unremarkable door behind her, added to the dramatic flair.

From the satchel slung over his shoulder, Kaelen produced a sturdy, utilitarian polymer carry case. He placed it on a clear patch of the desk and popped the latches with a definitive click, revealing the contents nestled in fitted foam: a rugged Ranger-issued hand phaser, its accompanying combat holster, and a single spare power cell. He nudged the open case toward her as if he were handing over a particularly irksome pet back to it’s owner. "Command was quite adamant that I carry this for the journey. They are a lovely people, if a bit paranoid about the 'dangers of the void.' I haven't handled one of these since my days at the academy, and frankly, I am much happier returning the entire kit to the capable hands of the security department. I believe I am meant to sign a manifest of some description?"

"It wouldn't be a very good process if there weren't forms to fill in, right?"

Selecting a padd from an impossibly-balanced pile on the bench behind her, Delaney rose as several taps then allowed her to present the Denobulan with the first of several very thorough documents. She'd designed them herself, from the prioritised fields that actually exported relevant information into the central database to the superfluous queries regarding tea or coffee preferences and whether or not the applicant was willing to participate in weekly karaoke. Every once in a while, it was suggested that these items be removed to maintain the integrity of the process. Delaney took those suggestions under advisement and, so far, when put to a vote of current experts willing to be consulted on the matter, the overwhelming feedback showed 100% in favour of the 'not in a pink fit' option.

"Pretty straightforward, happy to translate if necessary."

Kaelen accepted the PADD with a delighted twinkle in eye, his eyes genuinely lighting up while scrolling through the fields with an ease that suggested he either actually enjoyed bureaucratic oddities or appreciated the idea of somebody actually wanting to know so much about him. "Oh, no translation needed. I find the inclusion of one's preference for oolong versus espresso to be a vital metric of social compatability." He began to tap away, humming a low, resonant note that somehow harmonized with the residual Bajoran wailing in the background. "Though, I must ask, under 'Emergency Contact,' is it preferred that I leave it blank, or should I simply invent a fictional cousin? I'm afraid I spent so long married to my career that I neglected to acquire any actual spouses, something my parents are not entirely fond of. A bit of a Denobulan anomaly, I know."

As he spoke, he caught sight of another wayward flashlight that had rolled into the shadows of a nearby equipment locker. Without breaking his rhythm, Kaelen lowered himself into a deep squat, his free hand snaking out to retrieve the cylinder. He placed it neatly lens-down on the desk next to Delaney’s growing collection as continued to speak. "Ah, I see the question here: 'Which words describe your daily job best?' I believe I shall choose 'Cheeky Sod,' as you so eloquently put it earlier. Having too much to say is, after all, the primary requirement for a diplomat."

He straightened up, his smile widening as he tapped a field regarding 'Preferred Karaoke Genre'—selecting Anticapella Punk. "You see, Delaney, when you have spent decades solving every crisis through the medium of conversation, everything begins to look like a problem that can be talked into submission. Of course, I admit the habit was easier to maintain when I was delivered to those talks by a Starfleet cruiser. Having a ship capable of raining down hellfire at the first sign of genuine trouble certainly provides a wonderful backdrop for one's rhetoric, doesn't it?"

"Oh, now this is a fascinating inquiry," he mused loudly, pausing over the PADD. "'In the event of a total systemic collapse, would you rather be holding a hydro-spanner, a phaser, or a very firm opinion?'" He chuckled, his long fingers plucking a pen-light from the top of a stack of crates as he paced the small alcove on the third attempt, as he tapped out his answer with the thumb of the other hand. "I suspect the Rangers would find the phaser to be the only logical answer. They are excellent at executing the warlord of the week, but they often forget that a shot between the eyes leaves a vacuum. And vacuums, by their nature, may well suck in even worse things. Diplomacy is about what happens after the smoke clears." He glanced down at the PADD, his expression momentarily turning introspective as he hit a question about 'Ideal Ambient Temperature for Napping' and pondered if he should indicate it in Kelvin or Celsius, then settled on the latter.

"Take Coterie members, for example" Kaelen said, his voice dropping an octave but losing none of its Denobulan warmth. "Doing what is right for them after freeing them from the Orion syndicate requires a bit more nuance than a photon torpedo. Humanitarian problems are notoriously resistant to high-yield explosives, tempting though the 'shot between the eyes' method might be in a moment of frustration." He offered the PADD back to her, having filled out every field, including a very detailed explanation of why he preferred his tea served at exactly 68 degrees Celsius.

"There. Completed to the best of my abilities and, hopefully, fully authorized for caffeine and song. Do you happen to have another one?"

If there was any indication of just how dysfunctional the diplomatic channels on board actually were, it was perfectly demonstrated by the complete lack of imminent warning in regards to the nature of the gleam that now dominated Delaney's entire expression. (It was not easy to make one's nose radiate mischief but she had somehow perfected even that.)

As much as the questionnaire had been constructed for her own entertainment, since this process had a knack for becoming exceedingly tedious, especially during rapid crew intake, it wasn't entirely fair to say that Delaney saw no point to any of the responses. Striking up conversation was pivotal to initiating decent rapport, she was wont to argue, and crew morale hinged on the shifting dynamics that saw the bulk of the responsibility for any kind of impetus falling to those willing to ask the tough questions first. Essential information wasn't always best suited for friendly banter, even if it did suffer from the inevitability of living up to its description and being eventually unavoidable. It was surprisingly difficult to make friends with people when you launched right into demands about their criminal record, for instance.

It was far easier to meander down to Obligation Central if you softened the approach with frippery, owing to the oft-cited and plenty-proven adage that laughter promoted healing in a way that straightforward interrogation simply failed to produce. It made sense that people would be more willing to tell you what you needed to know if they were amused and put at ease and, as a theoretical basis of design, it hadn't been an outright failure so far. There was some scope for adjustment where Romulans were concerned but Delaney had come to realise you could say that about any topic, in any genre, in any circumstance. She had a sneaking suspicion they might actually constitute part of the reason for Gregnol even needing a diplomatic option and, as such, were too much at risk of skewing the data unreasonably to be considered representative. Most people seemed to appreciate sharing a joke before disclosing their licenses and firearm accreditations.

She'd just never had anyone take to it with quite the level of enthusiasm Kaelan was demonstrating.

"They get progressively less interesting," she warned, finding herself in the uncommon position of mourning a lack of any kind of Part 2. Inspiration monopolised Delaney in a way that often baffled those of a quieter disposition and it was clear by the way her brow furrowed, and her lack of immediate concern in presenting any kind of follow-up documentation, that whatever information she had left to gather was rapidly taking a backseat to a burgeoning rearrangement of priorities.

"I am open to suggestions though," she continued with a sudden grin. "Especially from a diplomat. A bit of feedback about anything you think is missing from the process. I was going to add something about the applicant's stance on cereal being a soup but Leiddem pointed out that not everyone eats cereal or even knows what it is." The roll of her eyes suggested that Delaney found herself trapped between pity and disbelief, not an unpredictable response given her tendency to consume cereal as a hobby.

Kaelen tilted his head, his wide smile softening, but not quite disappearing. He didn't immediately answer; instead, he reached up to scratch his chin in contemplation for few seconds before answering.

"The cereal question is near devious in its simplicity, Delaney. Truly. It tests for flexibility of definition—a vital trait in deep space and out on your own," Kaelen began, his voice carrying that melodic Denobulan lilt. "But, since you asked for it, I hope you’ll permit a bit of diplomatic critique. Data collection in and of itself achieves nothing. Rather, it can merely be the prologue. The true art lies in the data usage. You have a treasure trove of knowledge here, but it is just occupied space in the databanks until that knowledge is put to use."

He suddenly stood straighter, his chest puffing out slightly and his smile widening until it occupied a truly impressive portion of his face. He swept his arm out in a grand, theatrical arc, his eyes twinkling with a manic, performative energy that suggested he was channeling someone else entirely.

"Welcome back to Triple the Fun, Triple the Spouses!" he announced, his voice taking on the booming, artificial resonance of a broadcast personality. "I am your host, Mottas the Magnificent, and today we’re playing for the highest stakes in the sector: Social Cohesion!"

He pointed an accusing, yet joyful finger at an imaginary camera lens somewhere near the ceiling. "You should host a competition! Imagine the Engineering department pitted against Medical in a race against the clock! Tasked by the great Mottas to attribute these anonymous answers to their rightful owners! 'Who among yourselves prefers tea, yet only below room temperature?'" He gave a dramatic, stage-whispered aside to the flashlights on the desk. "The crowd goes wild!” Then, spinning around to Delaney “You see, it forces them to look at one another, learn about each other’s unique traits, and, ultimately, bind them closer together in a web of glorious, high-definition familiarity!"

He let the suggestion hang in the air for a moment, the 'Mottas' persona fading back into the observant diplomat, though the playful glint remained. His expression shifted, the levity giving way to a more nuanced, observant curiosity. "Speaking of uniqueness and the 'aftermath' of Ranger activities... I noticed the coterie members moving on as I arrived. It is a relief to see them find a path forward, though as the discussion about the their futures concluded, there was one detail in the reports that piqued my interest. There is the not so small matter of the smallest among them."

Kaelen shifted his weight, his fingers tracing the edge of his satchel. He kept his tone casual, almost conversational, though his focus on Delaney was precise. Mentally, he was already cataloging her reaction—watching for the flicker of defensiveness or empathy that would tell him more about the Mary Rose's heart than any questionnaire. "The orphaned telepathic infant. Since the child cannot yet articulate its own desire, let alone comprehend the consequences thereof, I find myself quite curious as to what the childs future may hold." He paused, a quiet, calculated stillness settling over him as he awaited her answer.

The Delaney of several years ago wouldn't have been so easily diverted. The tantalizing promise of fresh inspiration combined with an over-exaggerated energy that provided more than enough ignition for her own fanciful flights would have been more than enough to send her catapulting down a pathway of creative mayhem that would have made it challenging for her to even register the sudden change in pace much less anticipate its intention. Delaney had a good instinct for people but her impulsiveness combined with an emotional honesty that created much less of an iceberg effect than other types of personalities had never left a lot of room for delicate social maneuvering. When she was very young, it had paraded as naivety, and for a lot of the rest of her life, had translated into poor candidacy for any kind of insidious mind games. Delaney didn't do subtle very well.

Experience and the necessity of personal growth had forced a more reflective capacity, at least enough prescience to make use of her intuition or, at the very least, pay it a decent amount of respect. As difficult as it was to abandon the prospect of a ship-wide trivia event, the change in topic centred enough on a matter she was equally invested in for her to avoid squirming too much from the suppression of excitement. Like a dog capering around a corner and losing traction for a split second, her turnabout was a scramble, expressed visibly as her expression morphed through the phases of delight and confusion to settle on a wry, affectionate sadness as she realised what the man was referring to.

"Aye, little Caliea. That's a heck of a situation. Leiddem's glued himself to the data we pulled from the wreckage in the hope of retracing some of the flight information but you realise just how big the universe is when you're trying to find a single fixed point without any reference to guide you. None of them knew where they were from in relation to the bigger picture," she added. "Until they were abducted, most of them didn't even realise there was a bigger picture."

Kaelen felt a silent, uncharacteristic surge of relief tighten in his chest, one he was careful not to let reach his facial features. In the cold, utilitarian corners of the galaxy he had recently traversed, an "unclaimed" telepathic asset was often treated as exactly that—an asset to be kept, studied, or utilized. To hear that the Mary Rose was looking for a "home" rather than a "use" confirmed a suspicion he’d been nursing since he first stepped onto the deck plating: this ship’s crew may have been a ragtag gang of rogues, yes, but it was a crew with a conscience.

"A single fixed point is indeed a daunting needle in a cosmic haystack," Kaelen said, stepping closer to the desk, his presence becoming more compact, more professional. "However, Haystacks are exactly what the Federation is best at cataloging. If we are looking for a pre-warp, telepathic species, the Vulcans almost certainly have a file on them. They are quite... thorough when it comes to monitoring burgeoning psionic cultures. I personally suspect jealousy, though they would certainly deny it vehemently. There is likely even a surveillance station—tucked away in a hollowed-out asteroid or hidden behind a cloaked satellite—keeping a very close, very silent, very dour watch."

He gave a small, knowing shrug. "Of course, said station would not have interfered when the Orions arrived. The Prime Directive is a wonderful shield for one's conscience when it justifies inaction in the face of an individual kidnapping. But the records will exist, buried between piles of insubstantial reports nobody ever bothered to read. If Leiddem can provide me with a rough area of interest and the medical data from the mother—biological markers, cortical mapping, perferably without hinting at a pregnancy—I could reach out to a few old contacts in Starfleet's xeno-biological divisions and see about speeding matters along."

Kaelen offered an encouraging nod. "If the Federation truly has no records, then we at least know where the child is not from, which may help narrow the search area considerably. But my suspicion is that Caliea’s home is already in a database somewhere, filed under 'Observation Protocol Delta' and promptly ignored by those too busy following rules to recognize that they have hearts."

On a ship full of people who measured their reactions by the amount of smokescreens they could shove between themselves and the other person, Delaney's gawp of confused speculation stood in solitude. On the one hand, Kaelan had proposed something that nobody else had thought to suggest, quite possibly because not a single person on board was in a position to even begin to ask those kind of favours, but also because Starfleet, as a general rule, was a bit of a taboo subject. It piled on the intrigue and left her wondering what Gregnol was actually up to, inventing diplomatic channels, particularly those who were apparently well-connected to the uncle nobody looked forward to spending Christmas with.

"That's just about the first time I've heard any of us offer to speak to Starfleet willingly," she remarked candidly, apparently not in the least bit inclined to keep the motivation for her reaction to herself. "You might want to avoid name-dropping if any of the stories that follow people on board are true." Grinning, Laney seemed less perturbed about the checkered pasts of her colleagues and far more interested in figuring out why the new one had chosen this ship, of all possible employment opportunities. Arms folded across her chest, she continued a straight path forward by adding, "You'll have to fill out a whole different form if you come here to bury skeletons."

Kaelen let out a soft, rhythmic chuckle. He appreciated the candor; in his experience, a warning given with a grin was worth ten delivered with a scowl.

"I appreciate the counsel, Delaney, truly, but I am not much for lying or deceiving those I live and work with for my own benefit," he said, his expression settling into a serene, comfortable honesty. "The Captain is quite aware of my history. He knows I spent over five decades as a Federation diplomat, smoothing over the various bruises the Starfleet vessels occasionally leave in their wake."

He paused, a flicker of something heavier passing behind his eyes, a shadow of the man who had been required to be a scalpel as often as he was a bandage. "Of course, I did not spend all his time tending to others' mistakes. I have caused my fair share of harm as well. Sometimes the 'firm opinion' I mentioned is used to crush a dissent that should have been heard, or to sacrifice the few for the benefit of a treaty. I’ve broken hearts and dreams in the name of the Greater Good—a phrase that grows more bitter the more often you have to say it. That was my past life, and I am not content to merely leave it behind; I am here to make what amends I can, away from the internal politics of the Federation."

He tilted his head back toward the doorway, his eyes momentarily distant. "But the connections remain. I am not exactly a man on the run, nor am I hiding from any particular shame. If those bridges haven't been burned, I see no reason not to cross them if it means giving little Caliea a chance to grow up normally."

His playful glint returned, more mischievous than before, as he leaned in slightly. "As for my skeletons? If you are truly intent on digging through my closet, I should warn you: you would likely get much further with a few glasses of Antarean cider. However," he raised his index finger in mock warning, his wide smile returning, "there is a significant risk. If I am sufficiently... lubricated, I have a tendency to start singing 'The Seven Moons of Xantheer.' It is a Denobulan folk song with forty-two verses, most of which involve complex polyphonic yodeling sections that have been known to cause temporary migraines in several humanoid species. You should be very careful what you wish for."

Despite the glittering potential of a fresh avenue, and the immediate desire to contact Leiddem to secure Kaelan's offer before it slithers off into the ether to become another casualty of her scatterbrained tendency to override important information with minor distractions, Delaney was drawn into the challenge with a pair of arms folded across her chest to emphasise a lack of conviction.

"Oh come on."

The expression on her face was a perfect balance of incredulity and sparkling mischief.

"If you think that's any kind of deterrent, you've clearly never been to an Irish wedding."

 

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