Transfer, A. Martinez.

Posted on Sat Dec 27th, 2025 @ 2:16am by 1st Lieutenant Ángel Martinez

1,442 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Character Backstories
Location: USS Pathfinder
Timeline: Early 2389, the day of the transfer for 1st Lt. Martinez

When the transfer from the USS Pathfinder came, Martinez hadn’t been surprised. Or shocked. They had done a good stint on the ship, not rocked too many chairs and fitted in decently well with the Marines. They knew what was said behind their backs…that there was a softness there: Ground Forces Soft, not Marine Mean.

Martinez didn’t believe in being mean for the sake of it, or kicking people just to prove a point. Someone stepped wrong, Martinez told the NCO. It happened again, Martinez themselves took the Marine aside. Happened a third time?

That’s when they let the extra shifts and drills come. But never to break someone. Always to educate and stopped before it went somewhere cruel or dangerous.

Maybe it did make them too soft to be a proper Marine. But no one had dared tell that to Martinez’s face, so they did not ask or push. They let the words drift by, ignored if caught just within hearing. It had been a long time since Martinez had cared about what people said about them.

They packed their things with the same calm pace they did things when there was no red alert or people firing at them. The medals went at the bottom of the case, followed by some books. They preferred reading on a PADD but their father had sent them some of the family books when they downsized prior to moving to Earth. All the surviving children had received books. There had been no regard to interest. Martinez was given books that would look good on a shelf, Marisol books that tied the family together and Sofia had gotten all the books on herbs. The cookbooks had been kept by Martinez’s parents and now stood proudly in the kitchen there.

Martinez turned one book over in their hand, the worn spine and musty dry scent rising. A hint of metal, the scent of Mars as it had once been. They sighed and put the book down. Stood, shook the tenseness from their hands before walking to their clothes. Dress uniform. Spare uniform. Fatigues. Civilian clothes for off duty or shoreleave when they did not want to wear their rank or purpose so openly.

The clothes joined the books. Next came the smaller things. Keepsakes The antique clock their father had given them that ticked too loudly at times, but could drown the sound of Martinez's heart beating after a dream. Holoframes. One lit up when they touched it, showed themselves fifteen years ago, next some faces no longer alive. A redhead with a smile. Raimi. A Betazoid nervously leaning against her. Terrow. Kerren, tongue sticking out, trying to look fearsome. Banik, watching with a wide smile. Martinez themselves next to them, and on the other side Morven, a rare moment where he didn’t look like he was bracing for something.

Martinez’s eyes lingered for a moment. And then they turned off the holoframe. Gathered it with others, a lifetime of memories captured on occasion. Snapshots of life…not all true. Some emotions faked.

They packed them as well, then headed to the small bathroom. It was luxury on a ship like this…or maybe it was just luxury for Martinez, who had grown up sharing, then spent a lot of their adult life sharing barracks with others who did not share Martinez’s need for privacy and cleanliness. They had always been seen as strange, choosing to use the sonic showers when no one else was around, or even during the war to wait until most of the others had washed, or not, before taking themselves away to get clean. Their squadmates, the ones they were close to, had insisted it didn’t matter. Sergeant Tho had used it as a weapon, made Martinez strip down to their underwear in the pouring rain, climbing the wall again and again then refused them the sonic showers for 48 hours. It had been a punishment for something. Martinez couldn’t remember what.

Maybe it had been for helping someone. The 77th had been good at punishing things like that before the War.

That had given Martinez two truths. One, cruelty taught you nothing except how to flinch and duck your head. Two, nothing anyone else threw at them could make a dent.

They returned from the bathroom with their toiletries, all zipped up neatly in two bags. One, with the things that they could wait a bit for, the other going on the bed.

Martinez grabbed the worn duffle, Ground Forces Blue but with a Marine patch carefully sealed onto it. This one was easier, just had their name on it. Martinez. Nothing more. Less was impossible to put on. Into it went a fresh change of clothes, uniform and fatigues. The little toiletry bag and one 2D printed image of them and their family. They did a final sweep of the room, retrieving a little jar of hairgel that had rolled under a chair. That went into the recycler. Then there was the kitchenette.

The items there that needed to come along, the jars of cinnamon bark, star anise, clove and piloncillo. They wrapped them carefully in t shirts before stowing them in the case. Same with the earthen clay pot, which was treated with care as it was put in the case. Once everything in the kitchenette was either packed or recycled, they took a breath…

And then they sealed up the case with their ID. The display showed their name, rank, and new posting. If Operations did things right, it would be in their new quarters before they had reported to their new Commanding Officer.

The duffle bag, as well as the crate with their combat gear and weapons, would not leave Martinez’s sights once they departed the Pathfinder. The case would follow, could be delayed, but usually ended up where it needed to be.

They finished by standing in front of the mirror, shoulders level, hands resting at their sides. The uniform was regulation: Marine green, sleeves clean, seams neat, boots buffed earlier in the morning. Their belt sat right. Collar lay flat. No medals. Just their name, their rank, and the cut of someone who kept their gear ready and their lines squared.

They did not adjust anything. They did not need to.

Their reflection looked back, same as it always did. Dark hair, short, curling slightly at the edges. High cheekbones. Straight nose. A face not untouched by time, but not worn out either. Just…set. The scar through the left eyebrow showed pale in the light, a sharp line that still caught sometimes if they dried off too fast. The jaw was a little tenser than usual. That was fine. It would ease. Their eyes, brown and steady, didn’t flinch from the mirror. They had done that once, years ago. Not anymore.

A few other scars showed if you knew where to look. Knuckle too high on the left hand. Slight ridge on the cheekbone. Nothing that needed covering. Just the usual markers of a life spent moving through other people’s chaos.

Martinez studied their own face for a moment longer. No expression. No pose. Just checking. Then they gave a small nod. Quiet. Functional.

And turned away.

They slung the duffle over one shoulder, left hand steady on the crate’s handle, and paused only once to scan the room. Nothing left undone. Nothing missed. The other case was already tagged and cleared. It would follow. The rest, they carried themselves.

The lights dimmed behind them as the door slid shut. Martinez didn’t look back. Transfers happened at ungodly hours they had noticed. As if they did not want to frighten people by showing an actual turnovers. As a result, the corridor they walked down was quiet. Just the sound of ship systems and the distant sound of shift change somewhere aft. Their boots struck the floor with the even rhythm of someone who had walked too many halls in too many ships to be unsettled by another.

They walked like someone who had walked through worse. At a pace that was just set as they made their way towards the shuttlebay. Toward reassignment. Toward whatever came next.

The USS Astrea was waiting. A new posting. New CO. New squad. Same uniform, same bones, same weight carried behind the ribs. Martinez adjusted the strap on their shoulder and kept moving.

They were ready. Or near enough. Time would tell.

Time would always tell.

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1st Lieutenant A. Martinez
Marine Officer
Formerly USS Pathfinder

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