The Fog

Posted on 28 Aug 2026 @ 6:51am by Lieutenant Commander Elias Harlan

1,434 words; about a 7 minute read

// Elias Harlan’s Quarters - Date: Forever ago //

Elias woke to the soft blue glow of the neural monitor mounted just above his left eyebrow. The familiar weight of it was still there — a thin, flexible band that Jorik insisted was “temporary” and “purely diagnostic.”

He sat up carefully. The cane was leaning against the nightstand where Jorik always left it, within easy reach. The room was dim, ship’s night cycle, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the environmental systems and the almost-inaudible pulse of the monitor.

The door chimed once and opened without waiting for an answer. Jorik stepped inside, medkit already in hand, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. He looked exactly as he always did: composed, precise, eyes already scanning Elias before he even spoke.

“You are awake,” Jorik observed. Not a question. He moved to the side of the bed and activated the portable tricorder with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Your sleep cycle was interrupted 47 minutes earlier than projected. Heart rate elevated by 6 beats per minute upon waking. Residual anxiety response.”

Elias rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye. “I’m fine, Jorik. Just… woke up. Happens.”

“You are not fine.” The words were calm, almost gentle, but there was a steel edge under them that hadn’t been there before the accident. “Three days ago you stumbled while reaching for a PADD. The neural monitor registered a micro-seizure cascade lasting 0.8 seconds. Undetectable to you. Extremely dangerous if left untreated.”

Elias blinked. “I tripped over the chair leg. That’s all.”

“That is what you believe.” Jorik’s dark eyes met his, unblinking. “The frontal lobe trauma you sustained was extensive. Residual scarring can produce delayed neurological instability for weeks — sometimes months. I will not risk a secondary event simply because you are impatient to resume duty.”

He reached up and adjusted something on the side of the neural monitor. Elias felt a faint, cool pulse against his temple. For a moment his thoughts felt… softer. Slower. Like the sharp edges of his usual restlessness had been sanded down.

“What did you just do?” Elias asked, frowning.

“A minor recalibration,” Jorik replied smoothly. “The monitor is currently providing low-level inhibitory support to the affected region. It reduces the probability of another cascade. You will feel calmer. Less restless. This is intentional.”

Elias stared at him. “You’re suppressing my brain function.”

“I am preventing another life-threatening neurological event.” Jorik’s voice remained perfectly level. “You nearly died once, Elias. I will not allow a second occurrence because of pride or boredom. Until I am certain the scarring has stabilized, you will remain under continuous monitoring. In your quarters. Under my care.”

He set the tricorder down and straightened, looking every bit the composed Starfleet medical officer.

“I have already informed Commander Amberlyn that you are not cleared for even light duty. Any attempt to leave these quarters without authorization will trigger an immediate medical alert. Do not test that protocol.”

Elias opened his mouth, then closed it again. The soft pressure at his temple made arguing feel… distant. Unimportant.

Jorik’s expression softened by the smallest degree — the closest thing to warmth the Vulcan currently allowed himself.

“You are safe here,” he said quietly. “That is all that matters.”

He turned and moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to glance back once.

“I will return in four hours with your next neurological scan. Rest until then. That is not a suggestion.”

The doors whispered shut behind him, leaving Elias alone with the soft blue glow of the monitor and the growing certainty that something had shifted in Jorik — something quiet, protective, and no longer entirely rational.

// Elias Harlan’s Quarters Date: As recent as possible (the morning after the transport ship left) //

Time.

It was something Elias should have been able to track, yet somehow it slipped through his fingers. When he was conscious, everything existed behind a soft, persistent fog that muted the edges of his awareness. Jorik came regularly — checking monitors, ensuring he ate, guiding him through brief periods of movement, even helping him bathe when the fog grew too thick. The care was constant, meticulous. The details of those visits, however, dissolved almost as soon as they ended.

Elias had no clear sense of how long he had been living like this. Days? Weeks? The question itself felt slippery. Somewhere beneath the haze, a quiet wrongness had begun to settle, growing more insistent with each cycle of sleep and waking.

But what exactly was wrong?

That was the question he could never quite hold onto. Thoughts refused to form a coherent chain. There were brief moments — fleeting, fragile — when the answer seemed to hover just within reach. Then a heavy tiredness would wash over him, dragging him under once more. When he woke again, the sense of wrongness had evaporated into the fog… only to return later, quieter, more persistent than before.

He was awake now, staring at the ceiling as the wrongness settled over him once more.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. And he needed to—

Needed to…

What?

What was it he needed to do?

Move?

The idea floated up through the haze, tentative but insistent. Moving felt like it might push back against the wrongness. Slowly, carefully, Elias sat up and took stock of himself. Nothing hurt. Nothing ached. He was alone. That, more than anything, felt strange. Usually when he woke, Jorik was already there — filling the silence, filling the time.

The wrongness sharpened at the thought of Jorik.

Jorik was wrong.

Or… Jorik was part of the wrong.

A heavy lethargy began to creep in at the edges of his awareness, trying to pull him under again. Elias pushed against it. He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to move. Moving felt right.

He stood, hand automatically finding the cane waiting at the bedside, and made his way into the bathroom. The mirror showed him a man who looked outwardly fine — well-kept, composed. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his skin seemed a shade paler than it should have been, but he was intact. Whole.

Except…

His gaze caught on the slender neural monitor fixed just above his left eyebrow. The wrongness spiked hard and sudden. Elias couldn’t look away. The indicator lights along its edge began to flash a little faster, and the lethargy pressed harder against his mind, thick and insistent.

It was trying to do something to him.

Something he didn’t want.

The shape of the wrongness finally resolved into something almost clear. His hand rose, fingers trembling as they traced the
edges of the device. Before the fog could reclaim the thought, before the lethargy could win, his fingers closed around the monitor and pulled it free of his skin.

The moment the monitor left his skin, the fog vanished.

It didn’t fade. It simply ceased to exist — as if a switch had been thrown. Every suppressed thought, every half-formed suspicion, every buried sense of wrongness crashed back into place at once. The quiet, persistent lethargy was gone. In its place was sharp, cold clarity… and a rising, white-hot anger.

Elias stared at his reflection. The man in the mirror looked older than he remembered — pale, drawn, with faint shadows under the eyes — but the expression hardening across his face was pure, focused fury.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said quietly to his own reflection.

The words felt good. Solid. True.

He turned and moved back into the main living area as quickly as the lingering weakness in his legs would allow, cane tapping sharply against the deck. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew alarms would already be sounding — whatever fail-safes Jorik had built into that little device would have triggered the instant it lost contact with his skin. The Vulcan would be on his way. Possibly already in the turbolift. Possibly already outside the door.

Elias didn’t care.

He needed time. Not much. Just enough to orient himself. Enough to figure out how long he’d been living in that soft, obedient haze. Enough to prepare for the conversation that was about to happen — because it was not going to be calm, and it was not going to be clinical.

He stopped in the center of the room, breathing hard, staring at the closed doors.

Jorik had done this to him.

And Elias was going to make damn sure the Vulcan understood exactly what that meant.

—

Lieutenant Commander Elias Harland
Chief Engineering Officer
USS Arawyn

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