A Truth Revealed

Posted on 01 Feb 2026 @ 1:02am by Lieutenant Aev Flammia

2,351 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Aev's Quarters
Timeline: Current

[ USS Arawyn ]

It felt faintly strange to be back aboard the Arawyn after several weeks away. After everything that had transpired on Corvanis IV, it was hard to deny that Aev had changed irrevocably.

Once he’d seen Sam settled into her temporary quarters, he made his way to his own. The door slid open and the space beyond felt… unfamiliar. He’d spent nearly as much time away from the ship as aboard it, and now the room no longer quite fit him the way it once had.

He crossed to the couch and let his duffel bag fall from his shoulder, the soft thud echoing louder than it should have. His gaze drifted to the ring on his finger. He turned it absently, thumb brushing over its surface, then gave a small, almost wry exhale. “Alright,” he murmured, as though addressing something half-mythical. He tapped the ring, summoning Ignis like a reluctant genie.

A soft shimmer spilled from the ring, light folding in on itself before resolving into Ignis’s humanoid form. He stood there for a beat, arms crossed, expression carefully arranged into something between dignity and offense.

“Oh good,” Ignis said flatly. “I was beginning to worry you’d forgotten about me. Do you have any idea how demeaning it is to be forcibly reduced to a decorative accessory during a command-level conversation?” He glanced around the quarters, nose wrinkling. “And for that meeting, no less. Calm voices. Responsible concern. So many feelings, all neatly bottled.” He shot Aev a pointed look. “You could’ve let me out. I would’ve behaved.” Ignis paused, then added, “That’s a lie. But I would’ve been helpful.”

“Helpful?” Aev echoed, a faint frown creasing his brow. “When I met with the Romulan senator… my uncle. You heard, and recorded, that entire conversation, didn’t you?” He turned away, unzipping the duffel bag and pulling out a stack of neatly folded clothes, the motion giving him something to do as the question hung in the air.

Ignis lifted a brow, offense giving way to wounded professionalism. “Recorded is such an inelegant word,” he replied. “I prefer archived with exquisite precision. And yes, every syllable, tonal shift, micro-expression, and politically relevant pause is safely stored. You’re welcome.”

He drifted closer, hands clasped behind his back. “Which, for the record, is exactly why you were wise to keep me confined during the captain’s meeting. I would have been compelled to offer context. Possibly footnotes. Almost certainly commentary.”

Aev carried the clothes into the bedroom and stowed them in the dresser. When he returned to the living-room area, he fixed Ignis with a sharp look. “Are you actually incapable of keeping your mouth shut?” he asked. “For an advanced program, you have some… notable limitations.” The irritation lingered a minute longer than intended. “Never mind.” He waved a hand, dismissing the comment more than the hologram.

He turned back to the duffel, pulling out his padd and the Romulan communication device he’d buried beneath the clothes. He set both carefully on the coffee table, then dropped the bag to the floor. Sitting down, he studied the device in silence, hesitation tightening in his chest. The guilt of not reporting what it actually was still clung to him.

“Ignis.” His voice hardened, seriousness settling in. “You understand that you can’t reveal anything about this. To anyone.” He met the hologram’s golden eyes. “If you do, I’ll be in a great deal of trouble.”

Ignis didn’t joke this time. The usual theatrical looseness drained from his posture, leaving something quieter and more precise. “Yes, Aev. I understand,” he said evenly. “My safeguards are intact, and my discretion protocols are… exceptionally motivated.”

He glanced at the device on the table, then back to Aev. “Anything you haven’t shared is compartmentalized. I won’t volunteer it, hint at it, or accidentally let it slip in a moment of wit.” A pause. “Though I reserve the right to remind you that this is, in fact, a terrible idea.”

“It probably is,” Aev agreed quietly, his gaze fixed on the device. “But I can’t risk losing this link to…” His voice trailed off. He’d never expected to know anything about his biological family, never expected Corvanis to yield answers at all. Now it had given him too much: not just truths about who he was, but a depth of information he wasn’t prepared to absorb.

“Counseling…” He exhaled slowly. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, but it made him uneasy. He’d always been careful about what he shared, even with Sam. She knew about the device, but not about his biological mother. And that omission weighed on him. There was always the possibility that this was an elaborate deception, but to what end? He would never betray the Federation. Surely they didn’t expect that. Did they? And the speed with which his presence on Corvanis had become known unsettled him further. The implication was unavoidable: the Free State had eyes among the Remans.

That thought sat poorly with him.

“Ignis,” Aev said at last, turning back to the hologram. “Check my messages.” He paused, eyes flicking once more to the device on the table. “I could use the distraction.”

Ignis inclined his head, eyes briefly unfocusing as he accessed the system. “Very well,” he said, tone light but attentive. “Let’s see what the universe has deemed worthy of interrupting your existential spiral.” A heartbeat passed. Then another.

“Huh,” Ignis murmured, the humor softening into something more careful. “Most of it is routine, status updates, a reminder you ignored about a pending report, one aggressively polite follow-up from Starfleet Medical.” He glanced up at Aev. “And… one personal message.”

He hesitated just long enough to matter. “It’s from your father. Vice Admiral Max Flammia. Timestamped three days ago. He didn’t flag it urgent, but…” a faint smile tugged at Ignis’s mouth, “he rarely does.”

Dad…” Aev murmured, a flicker of unease tightening in his chest. “I suppose I can’t ignore him forever.” Part of him wanted too anyway. Instead, he rose and crossed to the wall display opposite the couch, pausing only a moment before squaring his shoulders.

“Ignis,” he said quietly, “play the message.”

Ignis lifted a hand, and the wall display shimmered to life.

Max Flammia’s image resolved out of uniform, expression familiar and carefully composed. “Aev,” he said, voice steady but warm. “I heard about Corvanis.” He paused, eyes softening. “I won’t pry. I just want you to know your mother and I are thinking about you. If you’re up for it, call us. No questions you don’t want to answer.” A faint, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Just… check in. Let us know you’re alright.”

Guilt hit Aev all at once. When he’d left, it had been a small thing, a thought he’d pushed aside, easy to ignore in the rush of everything else. Now it surfaced fully formed, heavy and undeniable. His parents had raised him. They had loved him. He loved them just as fiercely. And suddenly Corvanis felt less like a search for truth and more like a betrayal.

Anger followed close behind. Had they known he was psionic? They must have. Why else would there have been a block in his mind at all? The question gnawed at him, tightening his stomach until it felt like a vice.

He looked to Ignis, hesitating just long enough to feel the weight of the decision settle. Then he exhaled and committed to it. “Can you open a subspace channel to Earth?”

Ignis inclined his head once, then raised a hand. “Channel open,” he said softly.

The wall display shimmered, resolving into the image of a woman standing in a quiet, sunlit room. Dark hair swept neatly back, pointed ears unmistakable despite the human softness of her features. Her posture was composed, hands folded at her waist, but her eyes sharpened the instant she saw him.

“Aev,” she said. Her voice was calm and threaded with relief. “You’re back aboard Arawyn?”

She studied his face for a moment longer than logic strictly required. “Your father has been called to Starfleet Command. An urgent matter. He would have preferred to be here.” A pause. Her expression softened just slightly. “I heard about Corvanis. Few details.” She tilted her head, a familiar Vulcan gesture made gentler by habit. “You do not have to explain anything you are not ready to explain.”

Then, more quietly, “But I am glad you reached out.” She met his gaze, steady and warm. “How are you feeling?”

He felt love first, then anger, as he studied her on the viewer. Tears rimmed his eyes as he clenched his jaw, memories of childhood pressing in: the logic lessons, the careful guidance. He had never been taught to repress his emotions, only to understand them, to observe them through the lens of logic.

Now that lens failed him. Logic felt thin, inadequate against the tangle of emotions surging through him. Tears slid down his cheeks despite his effort to stop them. “Mother… did you know?”

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in her expression, surprise, perhaps, but it was smoothed away almost instantly, masked with practiced elegance.

“I’m psionic,” he continued, voice unsteady. “Not just that…” He swallowed, drawing a slow breath to steady himself. “There was a block in my mind. Something put there to repress it.” He met her eyes, searching. “Did you know?”

She closed her eyes briefly in quiet mental ordering. When she opened them again, her gaze was composed. “Yes,” she said evenly. “That is why you were sent to Vulcan. When the ability first manifested, we could not determine its origin. As a Romulan, you should not have developed psionic sensitivity of that nature. We believed it necessary to observe you in a controlled environment.”

She inclined her head slightly. “Your grandfather worked with the Vulcan Science Directorate to analyze the phenomenon and identify its source.”

Her expression did not change as she continued. “While you were there, the ability intensified. During an incident at your school, you were subjected to ridicule regarding your Romulan heritage. An emotional surge occurred. You projected outward. The other students experienced acute emotional amplification, primarily anger, which escalated into violence. The disturbance spread beyond the students. Faculty were also affected.”

A measured pause.

“Several individuals sustained serious injuries.”

She folded her hands more tightly. “At that point, it was concluded that the ability posed an unacceptable risk. Its mechanics were not understood, and its effects could not be reliably contained. The block was implemented as a preventative measure. Not as punishment, and not as denial of your identity.” Her eyes met his “it was done to protect you and to protect others.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Aev asked, his voice tight. “You had opportunities, after I graduated from the Academy, after I was old enough to understand.” He brushed his sleeve across his cheeks, wiping away the tears. “Why hide it for so long? Why the block?”

He gestured toward the Lexorin-P device on his arm. “You could have suppressed it chemically, with Lexorin and a psylosynine inhibitor. You had other options.”

She regarded him in silence for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was even. “The block was chosen because it was preferable to long-term chemical suppression,” she said. “Lexorin and psylosynine inhibitors were considered. They are effective in the short term, but extended use carries risks: neural dependency, emotional attenuation, degradation of regulatory pathways. You were a developing child. We would not subject your mind to indefinite pharmacological restraint.”

She inclined her head slightly. “The block was stable. Passive. It allowed your cognition and identity to develop without constant interference.” As to his second question, her gaze sharpened. “We did not tell you because you were not yet prepared to integrate that knowledge safely. Before such a revelation, it was necessary to observe your psychological stability over time. To ensure your sense of self was resilient. You also required further Vulcan training: discipline, emotional regulation, cognitive control, before we believed disclosure would not cause harm.”

She paused for a moment. “I am… concerned that the block is no longer in place,” she admitted. “Lexorin may stabilize you temporarily, but it is not a substitute for internal control. Prolonged reliance will carry consequences.” Her eyes held his. “What has emerged within you is powerful, Aev. Without discipline, it is not merely dangerous to others. It is dangerous to you.”

“I need time to absorb all of this,” Aev said quietly, his voice unsteady despite his effort to keep it level. “Tell Dad that I’m… fine.” He knew the word rang hollow, but he had nothing truer to offer. “I love you both,” he added, then paused. “But I need to go.”

She drew in a breath, clearly about to respond. “Aev-”

He didn’t let her finish. His hand lifted, fingers moving with more urgency than precision as he reached for the control panel. The screen flickered, her image freezing for the briefest instant, concern just beginning to surface, before the transmission cut out entirely.

The room fell silent, the wall display dimming to black.

Aev lowered his gaze, sniffing once as he dragged a hand across his face. What a mess, he thought. His eyes drifted to the water bowl and food dish beneath the display. He stared at them for a long moment before the realization struck.

He turned sharply toward Ignis. “Ignis… where’s the cat?”

Ignis inclined his head slightly. “According to the ship’s computer, the kitten is currently in the medical bay.” A pause. “Alive, and, before you ask. No, I do not know how it got there.”

“What?” Aev breathed, disbelief cutting through his voice. He spun on his heel and stormed out of his quarters.

[To be continued...]

Lieutenant Aev Flammia
Chief of Security
USS Arawyn

 

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