To Toast the Fallen
Posted on Sun Nov 16th, 2025 @ 12:59pm by Ensign Matt Connor & Ensign Eric Banner
1,100 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission: Respite
The back corridors of Starbase 24 smelled like every port starbase he’d ever been on, of industrial coolant, recycled air, too many strangers, too many stories and not enough maintenance. But Matt wasn’t paying attention to any of it. He walked with his eyes low following the hand scrawled directions some Bolian security officer from the station had given him. “A bar with real alcohol,” the Bolian had claimed.
Matt didn’t believe him, not at first. Starfleet regs frowned heavily on anything stronger than synthehol. But the Bolian had smiled like a man guarding a secret. After ten minutes of twisting corridors and a dim service lift that groaned like it hadn’t been serviced since the Dominion War, Matt found himself outside a small, metal-plated hatch with a flickering neon sign of what looked like a classic martini glass above it.
Matt huffed a breath. It looked promising, so he palmed the door and stepped inside. The lighting was low and warm. The walls were mismatched woods, judging by the various grains they had been collected from at least three different sectors. Bottles lined the shelves behind the bar in a chaotic rainbow. The place looked like it had grown rather than been built. There were maybe a dozen patrons scattered around. But only one face caught his attention.
Eric Banner sat at a booth near the back. He was hunched over a small glass filled with something amber and dangerous looking. He watched Matt take in the room. There was something comforting about the imperfection of the room, as it was a reminder that not everything had to be polished and pristine for Starfleet inspection.
Matt approached the booth where Banner was sitting. “You started without me,” he said as he sat down in the opposite seat.
Eric raised the glass slightly. “Recon mission. The place needed to verify it was real before dragging a security officer into contraband territory.”
Matt gave a small, knowing smile. “And how is it?”
“It's real.” Eric set the glass down gently. “Very real.”
Matt chuckled softly and flagged down the server. “I’ll have what he’s having.” Matt’s drink arrived in a heavy glass that still held the warmth of whatever dishwasher technology the place used. Matt lifted it, sniffed it, and his eyebrows rose. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the real stuff.” He swallowed a mouthful. The immediate cough that followed was heroic.
Eric waited, out of respect, for him to take the first sip, then laughed before giving a sympathetic nod.
"So what prompted a fresh out of the Academy ensign like you to dig up a place like this?" Matt asked after he had recovered from the burn.
"Well, you are a pretty bad influence to start with," Eric said as he took a small sip of his own drink. He had gotten used to the burn by now. "But I asked one of the station security officers where I could go and have a real drink to remember fallen comrades. I guess everyone's heard, because the guy didn't even hesitate when he gave me the directions to this place."
Matt nodded, then silently looked down as his glass. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was necessary. He finally broke it. "Rogers was a damned good officer and commander. I only hope I can meet my end with half the courage that he did."
“And Oku,” Eric added quietly. “God. She deserved better.”
Matt didn’t speak for a moment. He moved his glass in small circles and watched the liquid catch the light. “She was just a kid,” he finally said. “A kid who always smiled like she knew a secret none of the rest of us did.” Matt finally leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams. “You know what one of the other security officers said before we left? He said the ship feels quieter now.”
Eric frowned. “Quieter?” he asked.
“Like the halls echo more. Like something’s missing,” Matt said.
Eric nodded slowly. “People leave impressions. Even after they're gone, there's something of them that's there.”
Matt raised his glass. “To impressions.”
They clinked their glasses together lightly with no flourish, no ceremony. Just truth and memory.
The second swallow went down smoother to Matt. Maybe because the first had numbed his throat. Maybe because sorrow made alcohol more forgiving. “You ever feel guilty?” Matt asked suddenly. “About being here when they're not?”
Eric didn’t hesitate with his answer. “Every damn second.”
Matt rubbed his forehead. “We did everything right. By the book. But it wasn’t enough. And I know that the chief feels more guilty than we do. But I feel that I failed them.”
“We survived,” Eric said softly. “That doesn’t mean we didn’t wish they had too.”
Matt met his eyes across the table. “I keep replaying it, you know? Every second of that last firefight. What I could’ve done differently. How I could’ve saved them.”
“Matt,” Eric leaned forward. “The only reason anyone made it off of that station is because of you and Lieutenant Zalla. Commander Rogers gave us all the time we needed, and you made it count.”
Matt clenched his jaw. “It just doesn’t feel like enough,” he said. "Noa was there one minute and gone the next. Rogers pushed us on and gave his life. I just feel that those losses could have been avoided."
Eric nodded and finished his drink in a single gulp. He knew, he understood, everything that Connor was saying. He felt his own share of guilt, and even embarrassment. But he couldn't let a shipmate and friend blame himself alone, even if he wasn't sure what to say next.
The next round arrived quietly, being poured without them asking as if the bartender understood grief by instinct.
Eric lifted his glass again. “To Commander Rogers,” he said.
Matt nodded and raised his own glass. “To Commander Rogers,” he toasted.
They drank, the liquid burning like liquid fire all the way down.
“To Noa Oku,” Eric added.
Matt hesitated only a heartbeat. “To Noa Oku.”
They drank again, finishing their drinks with the second toast. For a long time they simply sat and let the quiet stretch between them full of unspoken stories. The station hummed beneath the floor. Someone laughed at the bar. A Tellarite argued with a holographic dartboard. Eventually, Matt cleared his throat. "Well, there's no sense in letting a perfectly good bar go to waste," he said as he raised his hand for another round.
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