Arithmetic of Souls, Part I
Posted on Tue Nov 11th, 2025 @ 12:45pm by Lieutenant James Constantine & Lieutenant Ezra Van Wijnbergen
Edited on on Mon Nov 17th, 2025 @ 5:25am
1,475 words; about a 7 minute read
Mission:
Episode 2 - The Sins of History
Location: The Sidebar Lounge - Deck 5 - USS Artemis
Timeline: MD017 2015 hrs
The Sidebar Lounge seethed like a beehive that had been smashed open. Uniforms and civvies alike pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, their voices tumbling over one another in different dialects and different tones. The air smelled of hops and sweet liquor, of perfume and warm linen. Ezra stood wedged against the bar, taller than most, but no less trapped in the press. He lifted a hand once, then again--as though he were a castaway attempting to signal a passing ship.
At last, the bartender--a wiry Bolian with rolled-up sleeves and bare arms shining with perspiration--met his eye. Ezra leaned in, pitched his order for a pint of lager, and watched the man dip a stange beneath the brass tap of the hogshead. Amber froth climbed the narrow glass slowly.
"Appreciate it," Ezra said when the drink was slid across to him. He had the habit of thanking people who could never quite hear him. He palmed the stange, feeling its coolness against his hand, and angled his massive shoulders toward what appeared to be a gap in the crowd.
But the crowd was restless. Was it someone's birthday? He took a step, then another, the crush of bodies squeezing him as though the Artemis had gone to warp without inertial dampeners. He shifted his grip on the glass. He was almost clear of the crowd.
And then it happened--an elbow jostled his arm. The stange tilted, upended in a swift golden arc. The lager poured out with the finality of rain off an angled roof, cascading down the uniform of a dark-haired officer who had been extremely unlucky enough to pass at the exact moment.
Ezra froze. His shoulders stiffened, the empty glass still in his hand. He turned, eyes wide with apology ready.
The now half drenched man tensed...stilled...and then his shoulders sank with one of the most world weary sighs that had ever been voiced. James Constantine turned slowly, looking his assailant dead in the eyes, his eyebrow arching before he gave his hands a single shake to emphasise the drips falling from his jacket.
Ezra set the empty glass carefully on a nearby table, as though that could balance the damage already done. The look on the officer's face was enough to tell him this wasn't the man's first misfortune of the evening--nor would it be his last.
"That one's on me," Ezra said, his voice low. "Let me make it right."
"I'm not sure how..." Constantine looked down at himself before sighing softly, shaking his arms again for good measure before pulling his jacket off. Luckily, the black shirt underneath had been mostly shielded by the jacket. "I'm sure I'll think of something though. Eventually."
The large counselor lifted his hands in surrender. "Damn it--I'm so sorry. That was clumsy." His gaze swept the crowd, searching for the phantom elbow that had started it all, but whoever had barged past had already melted into the press of bodies, now faceless and blameless. He let out a long and annoyed breath through his nose.
Turning back from the officer, Ezra caught the bartender's eye again and made a small circular motion with his left hand. A split-second later, a towel came sailing through the air, tumbling end over end. Ezra caught it one-handed, snapped it straight, and leaned forward.
"Here," he said, reaching carefully toward Constantine's sleeve, blotting at the stain of the lager that had soaked into the fabric. "Hold still a sec. At least let me undo some of the damage before you start charging interest."
Constantine let him do it as he settled into a vacated stool, watching him as he placed the man's face. Van Wijnbergen, Victim Advocate Counsellor. He was taller than he'd expected, rightly or wrongly. "Too late, you're going into my list of favours owed," he replied dryly, but with no bite, clearly only joking.
Ezra gave a faint, crooked smile at the joke, the towel still working its way along the officer's sleeve. The fabric was darker now, damp with the lager he'd been forced to sacrifice, but no longer dripping. He folded the towel once then pressed it into Constantine's free hand, ceding the remainder of the clean-up rights.
"Fair enough," Ezra said. "It's probably not the only list I'm on."
The bartender materialized with the timing of an intrepid stagehand, sliding a fresh lager in front of Ezra and setting a glass of something darker by Constantine's elbow. He nodded to the two officers and disappeared into the crowd, likely returning to the bar.
"Talk about service," Ezra said, smiling. "Mind if I join you...?"
Constantine shook his head, leaning in to take a look at the glass, but already knew he'd drink it anyway. "Is this a counsellor thing? To break the ice and get people talking?" he didn't mean it though, his eyes glinting with humour.
Ezra lowered himself onto an adjacent stool, careful of the space between them. Balancing the new stange in his hand, he placed it on the table watching the foam cling to the sides.
"No," he said, a rare eye-crinkling smile forming. "I guess sometimes opening a door starts with a spill." He took a sip of his lager, avoiding the thick head as much as possible. "I'm not that kind of counselor, anyway."
"All counsellors are that kind of counsellor," Constantine replied dryly, his lips twitching with amusement before sipping his drink. He let out a soft sound of satisfaction before sitting back more comfortably. "No...you're a victim advocate, right?"
Ezra studied the pale gold in his glass, the bubbles climbing ever upward in twisting lines. "Victims. Survivors," he said, his words soft enough to be lost in the hubbub of the bar. When he looked up, Constantine's mouth carried more than a hint of mirth. He'd long since learned that a counselor's chair was as likely to draw jokes as confessions, and that even after a century of psychologists walking starship corridors, plenty of officers still turned their noses up at the idea of shrinks-on-ships.
"Ezra Van Wijnbergen," he said finally, sticking-out a hand across the table.
"James Constantine," he offered in return, shaking the hand firmly, appreciating his candour. "Criminal Investigations Officer. I can't say I envy you, work has to be hard on your side of the justice system," he added honestly. He knew he wouldn't have it in him. Too many variables...a million shades of grey...winners and losers.
Ezra's eyes traced the bar, the seemingly endless shuffle of uniforms and raised voices, then found Constantine again. "Maps and compasses," he murmured, lifting the lager again. He drank deep enough to wet the dryness in his throat and then set it down again with care.
"Yeah," James chuckled weakly as he eased back int his chair, rolling a stiff shoulder before sipping his drink with appreciation. "I'm not terribly good at being confined by directions and charts."
He nodded at Constantine, his expression deepening into understanding. "Your job's finding the trail of what happened. Mine's making sure the people left behind don't get lost."
Ezra stared into the contents of the stange, keeping his eyes there as he continued. "When I came aboard, it didn't take me long to see I"d be doing most of my work alone. That means I'm in my office more than anywhere else. I don't visit crime scenes. I don't visit the labs. I rarely appear in court." He glanced up at James with a warm smile. "Less chance to know the people I'm supposed to be serving beside."
He lifted his lager again, took another slow sip, and set it down with care. "You're Betazoid, aren't you?"
"Enough to know that you're not," Constantine chuckled weakly, unconsciously neatening some dark hair at his temple. There would have been a time when that question would have put him instantly on edge. He was trying to trust more in his new career, but it wasn't easy and it wasn't fast. "How did you know?"
The question had brushed against an old and familiar place inside of him. He let a breath out through his nose, shoulders easing with it.
"My parents are both Betazoids," Ezra offered, his voice sincere and forward. "Adoptive, obviously. I spent my formative years there. It's not like I could live in that house and not become used to listening past spoken words."
A Joint Post By
Lieutenant James Constantine
Criminal Investigations Officer, USS Artemis
Starfleet Criminal Investigations Unit
Lieutenant Ezra Van Wijnbergen
Victim Advocate Counselor, USS Artemis
Starfleet Criminal Investigations Unit
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