Held in Reserve: Controlled Damage

Posted on Sun Jul 12th, 2026 @ 12:59am by Lieutenant Darik Moreau

1,884 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Ghost Starship
Location: Classified Location, Beta Quadrant
Timeline: [Character Backpost] 2393

2393, Classified Location, Beta Quadrant

The rooftop had not been designed with marksmen in mind.

Darik suspected this was not a revelation that would have surprised the building’s architect, if they had ever been asked about the matter. The structure’s upper level was clearly intended for ventilation housings, forcefield generators, service access and the occasional maintenance technician with more patience than dignity. It had not been conceived as a place where someone might spend half an hour kneeling behind a parapet wall, persuading an inconvenient surface into the kind of stability required for precise work.

Even so, he had managed it, because Darik Moreau was nothing if not adaptable. It was how he had adapted to always feeling cold in Federation buildings, or adjusted the cut of the uniform to accommodate his neck comfortably. This was no different.

His left knee rested against the low stone lip of the parapet while the rest of his weight settled carefully through his hip and shoulder into the rifle. The posture was not comfortable in any meaningful sense, but comfort had never been the goal. What mattered was being still with as little strain on the body as possible. The weapon lay braced along the parapet edge, the matte casing absorbing the fading amber light of the evening, its long barrel angled toward the plaza that opened two hundred metres below.

From this height the square appeared orderly, almost composed, the geometry of paths and planted trees giving the illusion of calm design. People moved through it in small clusters, their conversations rising faintly upward with the hollow echo particular to stone courtyards. Darik watched them through the scope for a moment without really focusing on any one person, letting his eyes settle into the distance and scale of the place.

Two hundred metres.

A slight cross breeze from the west, subtle enough that most people would not have noticed it. He did. Out of habit, he made a small calibration of the modified phaser rifle. It was not strictly necessary. He had already checked the settings twice since arriving on the roof. But equipment deserved a certain amount of distrust. Anything that involved this much quiet waiting followed by one very important moment of precision should be verified as many times as patience allowed.

A soft pulse sounded in his ear. “Still awake up there?” Lieutenant McQueen’s voice asked over the comm channel.

Darik did not move much, only shifting his cheek fractionally against the rifle stock so the scope realigned with the plaza’s western approach. “Just barely,” he replied, voice low and unhurried. “Though if the architect responsible for this roof is ever identified, I intend to file a complaint regarding their complete disregard for operational ergonomics.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of McQueen breathing out something suspiciously close to a laugh. “You’ve been up there fifteen minutes.”

“Yes,” Darik said mildly, moving his head slightly, feeling the cold wind ghosting over his neck and ears. “Which is approximately fourteen minutes longer than anyone should reasonably spend kneeling on concrete.” His eyes went across the plaza again, studying the entrances to the surrounding buildings, the benches, the scattered groups of civilians whose evening had not yet been complicated by intelligence operations. Patterns revealed themselves quickly if you allowed your attention to rest long enough.

There were two men standing near the fountain who were not quite arguing convincingly enough. Another leaning against a bollard whose posture was too balanced to be casual. A pair near the far entrance who were watching reflections in the glass doors rather than the street itself. Ah, of course. Security, body guards…call them whatever you want. Darik watched them with faint, private disapproval. At least they weren’t mercenaries…Mercs were better actors.

“Convoy approaching,” McQueen said, voice rough in Darik’s ear. “Thirty seconds.”

“Good,” Darik said and settled in, looking through the scope. He nudged the magnification higher. “Remind me,” he added after a moment, “why we are not simply arresting this man like reasonable people? This is a Federation planet, and he is an armsdealer from outside the Federation.”

“Because that would potentially be a diplomatic incident with the people he has in his pocket. We’re trying to avoid those, remember?” McQueen sounded annoyed, as if he had heard it before. He may have had. Darik might have mentioned it in the briefing. And enroute. And just with general annoyance.

“Ah,” Darik murmured, a small smile tugging their lips at McQueen’s tone. Sometimes, you had to press the buttons…If only to entertain himself.

He watched a couple cross the plaza below, the woman gesturing animatedly while the man listened with the patient resignation of someone accustomed to losing such arguments. It was always faintly strange, observing a place like this from distance. Life continued in its ordinary rhythm even while someone somewhere was about to have their entire day abruptly interrupted by a carefully aimed phaser beam.

“Still,” he said thoughtfully after a moment. “Maybe we should have invited him somewhere. Somewhere with a better perch.”

The sigh in his ear was…tired. Not yet annoyed. Not angry. Tired. “You volunteered for the position, Moreau.”

Darik’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “I was assigned this position,” he corrected lightly. “Volunteering would imply enthusiasm.”

The first vehicle moved into the square. He saw it immediately, emerging between the rows of trees with the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to arriving where they intended to be. Two additional vehicles followed behind it in neat formation. The buzzing sound of hovercars, more for show than anything else. Why have vehicles when you could transport?

Oh wait. Of course you would, if you were a bit of a warmongering renegade whose entire life goal seemed to be making profit and damaging the Federation.

Darik’s attention sharpened without any outward sign of tension. The rifle remained steady against the parapet while the reticule slid across the convoy’s movement, tracking the lead vehicle for a moment before drifting toward the rear passenger door. “Convoy confirmed,” he said quietly. “And I must say, the man does have a flair for dramatic entrances.”

“What do you see?” there was a gruffness to the voice in his ear that made Darik almost smile. Confirmation was always good to get at a visual range.

“An entourage,” Darik replied, a soft breath escaping him. “And a security detail that appears to believe subtlety is an optional skill.” The last was said lightly, a huff of breath in place of a laugh and blue eyes that narrowed a little.

The vehicles stopped near the administrative building entrance. Doors opened immediately, aides and guards spilling outward with rehearsed efficiency. Then the target stepped out.

Darik studied him through the scope for several seconds without firing. The magnification sharpened the man’s features into clear detail: the posture of someone used to speaking while others listened, the easy gestures of authority, the faint impatience in his stride as he moved toward the building. He visually confirmed the target. Dark hair, the pointed ears that spoke of some Vulcan or Romulan heritage, the green tinge to the skin that spoke of Orion heritage too. Outside of Federation space, the target had naturally become an arms dealer, a war profiteer. And judging by the profile that the Counselling Department had handed over to Intelligence…? A bit of a sociopath. Or at least a grade-A arsehole.

The reticule hovered near the centre of his chest. Darik did not fire yet. Instead he watched the rhythm of the man’s movement, the way his shoulders shifted when he spoke to the aide beside him, the momentary pauses between steps. Timing mattered more than speed.

“Visual confirmed,” he said quietly, body still, breath and heartrate even. No spike of adrenaline.

“Take the shot before he reaches the doors,” McQueen said in his ear, voice lowered.

“I’m aware,” Darik’s lips barely moved, his voice a breathy whisper. He wasn’t really paying attention to McQueen anymore, just focused on his target. The rifle’s internal systems hummed faintly as he adjusted the stun output to heavy. At this range the effect would be considerable.

His finger rested along the trigger guard while his breathing slowed into the steady cadence he had learned years ago under Shreya zh’Thenis’ instruction. Archery had taught him that precision came not from force but from patience. The body always moved, if only with breath. The skill was learning when the movement reached its natural pause.

Below, the man slowed to speak to one of his aides, clearly launching into some sort of explanation.

Perfect, but also not the best shot. He had time. And since he had time, he might as well…

“Just to confirm,” Darik said lightly in a tone that suggested thoughtfulness, almost playfulness, “we are still operating under the doctrine of inconvenience rather than assassination.”

“Yes. Moreau, seriously…”

“Good,” he said with a small smile, because sometimes…under pressure, it felt good to just confirm. Working for the good side. The reticule drifted slightly upward as the man turned his shoulders. “Because while I do occasionally enjoy ruining someone’s afternoon,” he added as an afterthought, “I prefer not to start wars, get court martialled or be accused of working for the enemy.”

“Whenever you’re ready. Comm silence,” McQueen’s voice softened and the line went dead.

Darik exhaled slowly. For a brief moment the world narrowed around the scope until the plaza below was little more than lines, motion and distance. The reticule settled. His finger tightened. The rifle discharged with a quiet pulse. The beam crossed the plaza too quickly for the eye to follow.

Below, the target took one more step….Then collapsed as the stun charge struck him squarely across the upper torso.

The reaction rippled outward immediately. Security personnel surged forward, aides shouting in confusion while one of the guards dropped to a knee beside the fallen man. Someone called for medical assistance. Another began scanning the surrounding rooftops with sudden urgency.

Darik lifted his eye from the scope. “Well,” he said quietly. “That seemed effective.” He let out a soft breath and rolled his neck, grimacing at the stiffness. He disengaged the targeting system and began disassembling the rifle with slow, methodical precision, sliding each component into the padded case beside him. he rose carefully from the firing position, stretching the stiffness from his knee before lifting the case onto his shoulder. For a moment he allowed himself one last glance across the plaza.

Confusion. But no death. There would be one less person at the meeting, if it happened at all. And the local law enforcement would be able to track the ripples. Make arrests if needed. And that did matter, somewhat. He touched the case, letting out a breath. “I do love this rifle,” he murmured to himself before he went to the vents rather than the rooftop access. He knew there would be people up here soon…so he had some crawling to do, and then a long walk to the extraction site.

It was fine. He wasn’t in a rush.

[OFF]

Lt. Darik Moreau
Chief Intelligence Officer
USS Missouri

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