Half the Tools

Posted on 29 Jan 2026 @ 2:52am by Lieutenant Commander Claire Dunross MD

1,044 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Shuttle en route to Arawyn

The USS Arawyn came into view as the shuttle dropped out of warp, her hull steady and assured against the pale curve of Lathira IV below. Claire Dunross stood near the hatch, one boot braced against the deck plating, watching the approach in silence.

Her uniform was pristine.

Medical blue, pressed and unwrinkled, the fabric showing no trace of the chaos that had preceded this moment. No blood. No creases from kneeling on a vibrating deck. No sign that she had spent the better part of an hour with her hands buried in someone else’s injury. Only the faint scent of antiseptic lingered, subtle enough that most would miss it.

Claire had scrubbed thoroughly once Reyes had been stabilized. She had taken the time, even with the shuttle running on borrowed power and tempers running thin. Clean hands mattered. Appearances mattered. Control mattered.

Behind her, Ensign Marko Reyes sat strapped into one of the auxiliary seats, his injured hand cradled carefully against his chest. The dressing she had applied was bulky, layered, and precise. She checked him periodically with brief, assessing glances, noting the steadiness of his breathing and the way his jaw clenched whenever the shuttle adjusted course.

Pain was asserting itself now that the adrenaline had ebbed.

The rendezvous with the Intrepid had slipped first by minutes, then by hours. A navigational recalibration that should have been routine had refused to resolve cleanly, forcing the crew to rely on manual overrides while power fluctuated unpredictably. Claire had been monitoring the situation from a distance when the shout came from the forward compartment.

She had arrived just in time to see Reyes wrench the jammed access lever toward him with both hands.

The mechanism had resisted, then failed suddenly. Metal gave way with a sharp crack, and his grip slipped forward into the exposed housing. The edge tore into his palm with enough force that Claire heard it before she saw it.

Blood followed immediately.

Not a surface cut. Not a clean slice. The wound had opened jagged and deep, skin parted to muscle, the angle wrong and the location worse. She had seen enough hand injuries to know what concerned her most. Loss of fine motor control. Damage that could not be undone if handled poorly in the first minutes.

“Look at me,” she had said, stepping into his line of sight as he stared at his hand, frozen. “Not that. Me.”

She had taken his wrist and lifted the injured hand above heart level even as she compressed the wound with her other hand. Blood soaked across her hands almost at once, warm and uncooperative, before she could even think about anything else.

“Hold still,” she had told him, voice even, precise. “You’re making it worse.”

She felt the tremor start in his arm and adjusted her grip, grounding him as much as controlling the injury. The shuttle’s medical kit arrived seconds later, but by then she had already assessed what she was dealing with. Once it was within reach, she pulled on gloves with practiced efficiency and went back to work. Depth. Irregular edges. Possible flexor tendon involvement.

“Of all the bloody ways to prove a point,” she had muttered as she worked, the brogue slipping through before she bothered to catch it.

She had cleaned the wound meticulously, ignoring the ache in her knees as she knelt on the deck. Saline first. Careful inspection. No foreign debris embedded, at least not visibly. She had applied compression until the bleeding slowed, then wrapped the dressing tight enough to hold without compromising circulation.

She had taken his name while she worked.

“Marko Reyes,” he had said through clenched teeth. “Ops.”

She had nodded once, committing it to memory. She had asked where he was from, what assignment he had hoped for before this detour. She had kept him talking while she worked, not to distract him, but to keep him present and oriented.
When the bleeding finally stabilized, she had leaned back on her heels and assessed her work.

“You’re stable,” she had said. “But this needs a surgeon and proper tools, and we’ve only got half of that here.”

Now, as the Arawyn’s shuttle bay doors opened and atmosphere equalized, Claire shifted forward, already preparing to move. The ramp lowered, and she turned back toward Reyes.

“All right,” she said quietly. “On your feet. I’ve got you.”

She took his uninjured hand and brought him up smoothly, adjusting when he swayed. He followed her lead down the ramp, his steps careful but determined.

The operations officer waiting at the base of the ramp took in the bloodied dressing and Reyes’ pallor in a single glance.
“Doctor Dunross,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you,” Claire replied, already guiding Reyes past him. “We’ve got an urgent situation. Hand injury. He’s stable, but I need sickbay.”

“Yes, Commander.”

They crossed the bay together, Reyes faltering once. Claire tightened her grip and shifted closer without comment, redistributing his weight as naturally as she would reposition a patient on a table.

They reached the turbolift doors.

“Sickbay,” she said aloud.

The doors slid shut, the lift humming as it began its ascent. Claire glanced down at the dressing again, annoyance flickering at the faint bloom of red through the outer layer.

“That lever,” she said calmly. “You forced it when it was telling you not to be forced.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Reyes said quietly.

“Aye,” she murmured. “Machines will always win that argument.”

As the lift carried them upward, Claire’s mind was already ahead of her body. She pictured the Arawyn’s sickbay, unknown but familiar in concept. She anticipated the layout, the lighting, the staff she had not yet met. There would be a moment, brief but telling, where they realized who she was and what she expected.

She would not announce herself.

She never did.

The doors opened onto sickbay, and Claire guided Reyes forward without hesitation, already shifting from arrival to command. Whatever formalities her transfer might have warranted had been stripped away somewhere between a jammed lever and a bloodied deck.

There was work to be done.

And Claire Dunross intended to do it properly.

LtCmdr Claire Dunross, MD
USS Arawyn

 

RSS Feed