Root Vegetables

Posted on Sat Aug 2nd, 2025 @ 7:20pm by Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard & Lieutenant Nelar

2,829 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: EPISODE 1: SHAKEDOWN
Location: Officers' Mess, Deck 3
Timeline: MD037

The mess hall was already loud when Gideon stepped through the doors. He stopped just shy of the threshold, boots planted, giving the place a once-over like a man measuring weather. His nose was immediately assaulted by several scents all at once: boiled root vegetables, old uniforms, and something fried.

A long line snaked its way toward the galley hatch, the crew in just about every kind of stance: easy-going to foot-tapping, all the way to dead-tired.

Tables were packed. Several conversations seemed to commingle together, forming an incoherent buzz that was more than enough to cause a headache.

Gideon stepped forward, easy in his boots, eyes scanning the room for a free seat. Somewhere behind him, the door whished open again.

Nelar walked through the doors, pausing for a moment after she stepped inside to steel herself against the onslaught of smells and noises. She had unwittingly chosen one of the busier hours to dine, and made a mental note to become a better study of the crew’s schedule and adapt her own in order to dine during a less busy time.

She found a place in the serving line and looked ahead to see which choices would be acceptable.

Gideon stepped into the line, took a tray off a nearby stack and took his place at the end of the line, behind Nelar which seemed to shuffle forward in fits.

“Lieutenant.” Nelar greeted Maël as she noted his presence next to him in line. “It appears we both have chosen to dine during what I believe might be referred to as the rush hour.” As they moved through the line, Nelar ordered a salad and a serving of roasted root vegetables that appeared to include parsnips, beets, and something unrecognizable.

“Sure looks that way,” Gideon said, resting his forearms on the tray like it weighed more than it actually did. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen this many folks lined up for root vegetables before.”

Nelar glanced at him momentarily before returning her attention to the food line as she responded in all seriousness. “There is a wide variety of dishes for the crew to choose from, undoubtedly intentionally prepared to accommodate the crew’s varied nutritional needs and personal tastes. I doubt they are all here for the vegetable assortment.”

Gideon tilted his head slightly, the hint of a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Well now,” he said, “I stand corrected. Here I was thinkin’ it was the beets callin’ ‘em in like sirens.”

Nelar collected her plate from the server and then turned to face Maël, “Was that an attempt at humor, Lieutenant?”

The line shifted close enough to the food that Gideon grabbed a plate–something vaguely poultry-shaped under a glossy orange sauce–and glanced sideways at Nelar. “Could be. I’ve been known to try now and then.”

He leaned over the steaming plate and sniffed at the food, as though trying to decode the aroma. Then, glancing her way, he said, “Humour’s good for loosening things up a little. Gets folks talking. Cuts the frost, you know?”

“I was not aware there was frost,” Nelar commented. She carried her tray to a small station where hot beverages were prepared. She found the tea selection predictable, and selected a red leaf blend that she was familiar with and poured a mug of hot water, steam coming off of the hot liquid even after she returned the cup to her tray.

Nelar looked out at the crowded Mess Hall and contemplated her options as to where to sit. It wasn’t that she minded ambient noise or socializing with the crew, it was just that it was a particularly busy time, and there didn’t appear to be a peaceful corner in dining facility, most of the crew appearing to be particularly raucous this evening.

Gideon lingered at the beverage station just long enough to pour himself some black coffee. He took a sip, made a face like he just licked a battery, and then moved on.

“Frost’s more a figure of speech,” he offered, as they stood side by side, trays in hand. “I mean the kind that forms when folks ain’t quite sure what to say. Or when a room’s full but feels empty. You see what I’m gettin’ at?”

“I do not, unfortunately,” Nelar replied. “How can a room be full, but feel empty?”

Gideon shifted his tray to one hand and scratched at his jaw. “Well,” he said, finally, “sometimes it ain’t about the number of boots on the floor. A room can be packed to the bulkheads, but if nobody’s really talkin’, if nobody’s really in it, it can still feel cold. Maybe even hollow.”

He shrugged, not quite sure if that made sense in her frame of reference, but he offered it all the same.

“Everyone seems to be talking in this room at the moment. And there appears to be a paucity of places to sit,” Nelar said, stating the obvious. “I take it the Mess Hall is free of the frost that you speak of at the moment?”

Gideon scanned the room carefully, dubious as to whether there might be a seat available. “Yeah, you could say that,” he replied absentmindedly.

He spotted a table along the far side wall–half-emptied, with two younger officers hunched over their trays, appearing far too engrossed in their meals to lay claim to any conversation. He motioned toward it with a tip of his chin.

“Over there alright?” he asked.

“Are you inviting me to sit with you?” Nelar voiced her question stoically, expressing neither enthusiasm nor displeasure by the offer.

He blinked at her, not quite sure if she was invoking some kind of Vulcan sarcasm or genuinely uncertain. With her, it could go either way.

“Well,” he said, shifting the tray back to both hands, “I was fixin’ to sit. Figured I might as well not do it alone.”

Nelar bowed her head slightly as she replied to the Lieutenant, “Of the options available, your offer is not disagreeable,” she stated. “Shall we?” She made a slight gesture while holding the tray that Maël should walk ahead first.

Gideon gave a small, gentlemanly nod and stepped off ahead, weaving through a pair of crewmen locked in a loud debate over Nausicaan armwrestling.

The table he’d pointed out wasn’t exactly quiet, but it was the sort of corner that asked less of someone eating a meal. A place where no one would holler over their food or babble incessantly about a science experiment.

Nelar had followed closely enough behind Maël that he had essentially parted the crowd for her, making the passage to the table significantly less trouble than it might have been otherwise. She placed her tray on the table and chose a seat where her back could face the wall and took her napkin and began to place it carefully on her lap.

Gideon slid into the seat across from her slowly. He set his tray down, adjusted it once, then hunched slightly forward, arms bracketing his plate. For a moment, he studied the food like it might have something to say.

Nelar waited until Maël was seated, and then looked up at him briefly. “Thank you.” Her gratitude was stated simply and without affect, and once it had been expressed, she returned to focusing on her meal.

The orange-sauced poultry gave under his fork with a strangely elastic resistance. He let it drop onto his plate and dropped his fork with a sigh.

Across the mess, someone whooped at the punchline of a joke.

The sound of the meat hitting the plate followed by the dropping fork caught Nelar’s attention. She looked up again at the Lieutenant, dropping her gaze to his plate then back to him. “Is something wrong with your meal?” She asked.

He scratched the back of his neck and looked at her. “Could be fine,” he said. “Could be I’ve just eaten too many mystery meats that looked like this and weren’t.”

He picked the fork back up anyway. Took a bite, and chewed carefully. The corners of his mouth twitched a little–it was not a smile.

“Might’ve lied,” he added. “That’s definitely not fine.”

“There are benefits to being vegetarian,” she replied, looking at the questionable meat with distaste. She handed him her plate of mixed vegetables. “I believe you might find this dish satisfactory,” she suggested.

Gideon accepted the plate and offered the Vulcan doctor a genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, looking it over–turnips, chickpeas, and a few strips of grilled squash.

He took a bite of the squash and chewed. His brow rose slightly. “Huh. That’s actually decent.” He immediately set to the rest of the vegetables.

“Vegetarian, huh?” he mumbled between mouthfuls. “Don’t think I could go without seafood, doc. Blackened redfish, cajun-fried catfish, apple-garlic pomfret.” He swallowed and then whistled low, as if recalling the taste of the dishes he’d mentioned.

“Most Vulcans are vegetarian,” Nelar informed him. “Our society did away with eating meat centuries ago when we purged all violence from our way of life. I am sure you are aware of our dark history.”

Gideon nodded slowly, still chewing. He swallowed, then wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve read about it. Paranoia and homicidal rage. Savages running amok. Wars. Surak. Always figured it must’ve taken one hell of a wake-up call to get a whole species to say, ‘No more of that.’”

“Indeed. We are not proud of our history, but we make a point to remember it, so that we do not repeat it,” Nelar replied, though neither her voice nor her expression showed shame or remorse. She was simply stating fact.

He glanced up again, studying her in that quiet way of his–not rude, not searching… just honest.

“So do you like ‘em?” he asked, reaching for his coffee.

Nelar thought for a moment as she tried to reach back in their conversation to understand what Maël was asking. Despite her best efforts she was unable to decipher his intended meaning.

“I am sorry. Do I like what?” She asked.

Gideon grinned as he popped a forkful of chickpeas into his mouth. “Your freckles, doc.” He chewed and swallowed, as the clang of a pot hit the deck from the galley, causing the assembled officers to turn in unison.

“I neither like, nor dislike my… freckles. Freckles, or ephelides are merely areas of excess melanin production” she replied. “Completely benign.” She furrowed her brow in further concentration. “I am curious, why would you believe that I may have some sort of affinity or aversion to the fact that I have freckles?”

Gideon took another bite of squash, chewed then pointed lightly at her with his fork. “You know, I’ve met a few Vulcans in my day. Officers, doctors–even a botanist who bored cactuses. But I’ve never seen one with freckles.”

“It is somewhat less common among the Vulcan population than it is among Humans, though the actual statistical frequency would be difficult to calculate,” Nelar replied in earnest. “May I ask, why does it interest you?”

He put his fork down gently and looked up at Nelar. “I wasn’t askin’ for the statistics report, doc.” Gideon smiled at her and gave a loose shrug. “Just sayin’. They’re cute, is all.”

Nelar offered no obvious reaction to his comment save for a solitary eyebrow raising in curiosity. “Intriguing,” she replied without further comment.

He took another sip of his coffee and winced, as though he’d been struck in the midsection with a Klingon painstick. He glanced across the table at Nelar, who seemed to have returned her attention to her food.

“I suppose,” added Gideon, “you probably don’t receive many compliments, doc.”

“I find compliments irrelevant unless they offer constructive points for which action can be taken. Otherwise they serve no logical purpose.” Her tone was more matter-of-fact than critical, though rather than returning focus to her meal, she waited for Maël’s response.

“Well then,” he said, “what if I told you compliments ain’t always about logic?” He picked up a chickpea between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it absently. “Sometimes they’re just… acknowledgments. Like a way to say, ‘I see you. I noticed.’ No expectations, no follow-through. Just a tiny signal.”

He popped the chickpea into his mouth, chewed, and pointed the now-empty fork vaguely in her direction. “Ain’t got to do anything with it. Like static on a comm line. You can tune it out, or you can take it as proof someone’s still out there.”

Nelar found herself distracted by the fact that Maël was now fidgeting with a chickpea, with his hand. She hoped he did not plan to consume this particular bean - the thought made her stomach turn. To avoid saying something rude about playing with one’s food she returned her attention back to the discussion they were having on the topic of compliments.

“Ah, yes. I am aware that Humans seek out emotional gratification from another. It does follow that compliments would serve that purpose,” she replied.

Gideon leaned back a little, his eyes drifting down to the condensation beading on his coffee mug.

“Maybe so,” he said. “But it ain’t just about emotional gratification, doc. It’s about ballast.” He looked up, eyes meeting hers, not intensely–just steadily. “You ever see one of those old oceangoing ships come in too light? No cargo, no water in the ballast tanks?”

“I know very little about proper seafaring vessel procedures, Lieutenant. Though, I would presume that a vessel with inadequate ballast would show signs of compromised stability.” Nelar’s head tilted ever so slightly to the right as she contemplated Maël’s statement. After a moment she spoke again. “I fail to see the connection with giving and receiving a compliment, Lieutenant.”

Gideon gestured to her with his fork. “It’s an analogy, doc.” He stabbed at the remaining squash on his plate and shoveled it into his mouth. Between chews, he continued, “So these ships–they ride too high. Get pushed around by every little current. Turn broadside in the wind. You get a vessel like that in rough waters, it’ll tip, capsize, break up.” He glanced around the mess, then back to her. “But you put some weight in the hold–stones, water, sandbags, hell, crates of rotting beets–it steadies the whole thing. Keeps it pointed true.”

He paused, a short and quick intake of breath between chewing. “That’s what a real compliment is, doc. Just a little weight in the hold. A reminder you’ve got shape and presence and worth, even when the seas get mean.”

He gave a quiet shrug, as if dismissing the sentiment before it got too lofty. Then reached for his rancid coffee again. “Of course, ya might say that’s all metaphorical fluff.” He took a sip, and grimaced again. “But I reckon it floats.”

“An adequate metaphor. If I am to follow your intended meaning, Vulcans prefer to rely on logic. It is far more reliable in many ways.” Her tone carried with it typical Vulcan stoicism, completely neutral. She did not lecture and her eyes remained soft as she stated her point.

Gideon set down his utensils, nudging his tray slightly aside, and leaned back just a touch–enough to indicate he was winding down.

“Well then,” he said, “does logic float your boat?”

“Float my boat?” Nelar repeated the phrase dryly. “I am vaguely familiar with the idiom, but I am unsure of its application here.”

Gideon chuckled softly. “Fair enough.” He stood, collecting his tray. “Guess that’s a ‘no’.”

“It was a surprisingly enlightening discussion nonetheless.” She followed her comment with a sip of her tea that seemed particularly drawn out. “I’ll see you soon in Sickbay for your mandated physical, I presume.”

“Ah, the dreaded physical,” he said. “You Vulcans don’t use blunt instruments anymore, do ya?”

Nelar collected her tray and stood up. “I believe you are making a joke, perhaps you could explain the humor to me?” She asked.

Maël sighed to himself. “If you gotta dissect the joke, doc, it’s already on life support.”

He turned and made for the waste chute, deposited his tray with a gentle clatter, and gave it a little pat. Offering Nelar a two-fingered salute, he stepped through the mess hall doors and disappeared.

::OFF::

Lieutenant Nelar
Chief Medical Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard
Chief Operations Officer
USS Hecate

 

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