The Field Where They Died

Posted on Tue Jul 28th, 2026 @ 12:26am by Lieutenant Francesca "Frankie" Ardyn

1,170 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Hunted
Location: Dr Ardyn's quarters

Francesca Ardyn stood in the middle of a field filled with wounded people, wearing the surgical clothes she had used during the war and holding a medical tricorder in one hand. There were Starfleet uniforms among them, mixed with civilians, allied soldiers and several Cardassians, all lying across grass that had been flattened beneath bodies and stained dark with blood. She could see every injury clearly, could recognise where the bleeding came from and knew which instrument she needed to reach for first, yet her arms refused to move. Her medical kit sat open at her feet with everything arranged exactly where it should be, but when she tried to bend down and take a vascular regenerator, her body remained frozen.

A woman nearby reached towards her, one hand pressed against the side of her neck where blood moved between her fingers. “Doctor, please,” she said, while another voice called from somewhere behind Frankie, followed by another and another until the field seemed filled with people asking for help. Frankie tried to tell them she was coming, that she knew what to do and only needed a moment, but she could not force the words past her throat. The woman’s hand fell back into the grass as she stared at Frankie, confusion becoming fear. “Why aren’t you helping me?”

Frankie woke with a gasp, sitting upright as her hands caught at the bedding around her. Her heart was beating hard enough to hurt and the thin nightshirt clung unpleasantly to her back, damp with sweat. For several seconds she could still hear the voices and smell the field around her, the blood mixed with wet soil and the chemical sharpness of damaged equipment, before the quiet of her quarters began to settle over everything. She was aboard the Wayfarer. The lighting was low, the air was clean and there was no transporter alarm preparing to bring in another group of casualties.

She pushed the covers away and stood, although the speed of it made the room move beneath her. Frankie caught the edge of the bedside table before stumbling towards the bathroom, reaching the toilet just as her stomach tightened. She dropped onto her knees and tried to be sick, but there was little in her stomach and nothing came up beyond a small amount of bitter fluid that left her throat burning. Her body continued trying for several moments before she managed to sit back, one hand remaining against the wall while she breathed slowly through her nose. “That was productive,” she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she forced herself upright.

The lights brightened when she crossed to the sink, making her narrow her eyes as she rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water over her face. She remained bent over the basin for a while, gripping its edge until her breathing became steadier, before finally lifting her head to look at herself in the mirror. Her blonde hair hung around her shoulders in thick, disordered waves, flattened where she had slept on it and damp around her temples. The green of her eyes looked darker in the low light, the hazel around the pupils more noticeable with the whites reddened, while the lack of sleep sharpened her high cheekbones and left shadows beneath her eyes. She had always thought of her face as expressive, something made more obvious by the wide smile she used easily with patients and friends, but there was none of that warmth in the woman looking back at her.

Frankie studied herself with the automatic attention she would have given anyone entering Sickbay. Elevated breathing, perspiration, nausea and a mild tremor in both hands. No fever, no pain and no physical cause she could not identify without a tricorder. She knew exactly what had happened and had known before she reached the bathroom, but naming it did little to improve matters. She lowered her eyes towards the chronometer beside the mirror and sighed when she saw the time. It was 04:23, which left several hours before she was expected in Sickbay and far too much time to spend staring at the ceiling while waiting to see whether the dream returned.

Her first thought was to contact her parents, although she dismissed it almost immediately. Her father would answer regardless of the hour and attempt to hide how worried he was, while her mother would listen in silence until Frankie found herself explaining things she had not intended to admit. They had spent most of her shoreleave making certain she slept, ate and did something occasionally resembling rest, and she did not particularly want either of them to know how quickly she had returned to old habits after coming back to duty. They would not judge her for it, which somehow made the thought worse.

Frankie rinsed her face again before gathering her hair at the back of her head and tying it out of the way. Once she returned to the bedroom, she stripped off the damp nightshirt and dressed in a fresh uniform, fastening it carefully and smoothing the fabric over her hips more from routine than vanity. Her movements became steadier with each familiar task, until the woman reflected faintly in the dark viewport looked like a Starfleet doctor preparing for duty rather than someone who had recently been on her knees beside the toilet.

She crossed to the replicator and ordered a black coffee, watching the cup appear with a soft chime. The sound made her shoulders tighten before she could stop them, and Frankie stood still for a moment with one hand resting against the side of the machine. It was not the transporter alarm. It was not even similar to the transporter alarm, except that part of her had apparently decided any unexpected chime deserved the same response. She collected the cup and took a drink, grimacing as the bitterness caught against the back of her throat. “Excellent medical judgement,” she said quietly, although she took another mouthful rather than ordering something sensible. Coffee was better than some of the swill she knew people had brewed. She was grateful for good replicated coffee now.

Her duty roster showed nothing urgent. Two routine examinations, several post-operative reviews and a consultation with an officer who had been experiencing headaches. The night shift would still be on duty, and there was no reason for Frankie to appear several hours early beyond the fact that she was awake and did not intend to sleep again. She stared at the schedule for a while, one thumb rubbing absently against the side of the cup, before closing the display.

None of it required her presence, but she was awake, sleep was unlikely and there was no sense wasting the next few hours staring at the ceiling. Frankie collected her medical tricorder from the table, drank more of the coffee and left her quarters without looking back towards the bed

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Post by

Lieutenant Frankie Ardyn
Surgeon
USS Wayfarer

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