An evening better forgotten?

Posted on Wed Aug 19th, 2026 @ 4:10pm by Captain Marc Steyn & Lieutenant Syvar MD & David Steyn

1,704 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Season 1 Episode 2: The Garden at the Edge of Night
Location: South Africa, front porch Steyn residence

ON

Bright and early, David went outside to enjoy his breakfast on the porch, watching the sun rise in the distance. He stopped short when he spotted someone curled up on one of the chairs. He looked closer and recognised the young doctor, though the man didn't really look alright.

The teenager turned on his heels and marched back inside. "Dad!" He called out, "dad!"

The morning arrived far too quickly.

Outside, Cape Town was already bathed in the crisp warmth of an early summer morning, sunlight spilling through the broad windows and across the veranda as a gentle breeze carried the faint scent of the sea in from Table Bay. Under any other circumstances, it would have been an idyllic morning.

Inside, however, the aftermath of the previous night's gathering told an entirely different story.

Glasses and empty bottles stood abandoned across almost every available surface, half-finished plates of food remained where they'd been forgotten, and a collection of towels lay scattered around the pool and veranda. Cushions had been displaced from their usual positions, chairs stood at odd angles, and somewhere in the living room a piece of music was still playing quietly from the sound system, apparently having survived the night better than most of the occupants of the house.

Marc was not among them.

He sat slumped over the kitchen island, one hand pressed firmly against his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut against the merciless brightness of the morning. A glass of water and two tablets sat waiting beside him, though neither had yet been brave enough to make the journey into his stomach.

"What did I say about loud...?" he muttered, wincing David called to him from behind. "Too loud."

He slowly lifted his head, immediately regretted the decision, and lowered it again onto his folded arms.

"Remind me that drinking actual alcohol the day before launching a starship is a bad idea."

A long, pained silence followed.

"Alcohol bad."

He reached cautiously for the water, taking a small sip before glancing suspiciously at the tablets.

"Very, very bad."

"Dad!" The teenager called out again, more insistent this time, "get out here already...one of your crew didn't make it home!" The boy cautiously approached the Vulcan and found him unresponsive to a light nudge. David was afraid to nudge harder, not sure how Vulcans would respond to persistent touching.

"Stop shouting!" Marc called towards his son, the words leaving his mouth with considerably more force than intended. The instant they did, he regretted them. A fresh wave of pain exploded behind his eyes, causing him to wince and clamp a hand against his forehead.

"I'm not sure I made it out alive from last night either," he muttered, his voice dropping immediately to little more than a pained whisper.

With considerable effort, Marc peeled himself away from the kitchen counter and pushed himself upright. He waited a moment for the room to settle—or at least stop spinning quite so enthusiastically—before carefully slipping from the chair.

The journey towards the patio doors proved considerably more challenging than it had any right to be. The floor seemed determined to move beneath his feet, forcing him to take each step with exaggerated care, one hand occasionally reaching for furniture as he made his way across the room.

Eventually he reached the doors and stopped, blinking against the harsh brilliance of the morning. The warm Cape Town sunlight poured through the glass, illuminating the remnants of the previous night's celebration with almost cruel efficiency.

Marc raised a hand to shield his eyes, squinting towards whoever was waiting beyond the doors.

"Who is it?" he asked, his voice immediately returning to the subdued volume demanded by his aching head.

"I don't know... He's got pointed ears and he doesn't look right. How many Vulcans are there on your crew? I didn't meet everyone yesterday."

"A handful," Marc admitted, rubbing at his temple as he tried to piece the previous evening together. "But the only one who actually came..."

He stopped.

For a brief, glorious moment, the fog of his hangover seemed to lift entirely as the implications of what he had just remembered registered. His eyes widened.

"...was our Chief Medical Officer."

Marc stared towards the garden, suddenly far more awake than he had been a moment earlier.

"He's unconscious in my garden."

There was a beat of silence.

"I didn't think Vulcans could drink alcohol."

The fleeting moment of clarity lasted all of perhaps two seconds before the hangover reasserted itself with renewed enthusiasm. Marc winced, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers against his temples.

"Actually," he muttered, "I don't think I want to know how that happened just yet. Check his pulse, make sure he's not dead and throw a blanket over him if his still living... I'm going to die on the sofa for an hour."

David yanked his father back by his arm, his stare unforgiving. "You do know there's medication to treat this right," said accusingly, "and he's breathing, so if he's breathing then there's a pulse. Besides...it's moot to check one on a Vulcan my biology teacher said the other day, their blood pressure is so low a pulse is barely detectable, if at all. You should wake him, then the two of you can have breakfast and hangover medication together."

Marc's first instinct was to berate his son, but the hangover protested against raised voices before they could even begin. Instead, he freed his arm from David and moved toward his Medical Officer.
"Doctor," he said, his voice still hoarse. "Doctor." Firmer this time, as he firmly shook the unconscious Vulcan.

The Vulcan groaned and stirred, green eyes dull and filled with confusion as he worked himself up into an unstable sitting position. "What happened?" He asked in a similarly hoarse voice, "where am I?"

"That's what you get for allowing alcohol dad," David said accusingly, while reaching out to steady the Vulcan and keep him from falling. "You passed out on our porch doctor," he continued, more gently now, "I think you had a bit too much fun last night and too much to drink."

Syvar glanced from one to the other as he struggled to focus. "Alcohol? No I didn't have any...I only had one glass of this alien fruit juice, it did taste odd but it wasn't bad."

"Given to you by Vi, I'd wager," Marc said, lowering himself carefully into the plush chair the Doctor had just vacated.

The movement alone seemed to require more concentration than it should have. He settled back against the cushions with a weary sigh, one hand immediately finding his temple as another dull throb began building behind his eyes.

"That wasn't just alcohol, Doctor..." he continued, his voice carrying the exhausted disbelief of a man who had very much learned his lesson. "That was alcohol strong enough to aid in achieving orbital velocity."

He let his head sink back into the plush cushions and closed his eyes, grateful for the relative darkness.

For several seconds he said nothing.

Then, barely above a mumble, he added, "I think I understand why Starfleet doesn't recommend recreational drinking."

Another pulse of pain made him grimace.

"Apparently, they were onto something."

"Gee, really?" David commented dryly. "I'll let you two simmer for a bit, and go make some coffee."

Syvar rubbed his temples, willing the headache away. "Perhaps..." He started slowly, as if every single word was costing enormous brain power, "perhaps we should make it a rule aboard ship. No alcohol, real alcohol under any circumstances."

"At this moment..." Marc began, his voice somewhat muffled as he rested his head in his hands, as though sheer force of will might somehow banish the hangover from existence.

It was a battle he was very clearly losing.

"...you'll get absolutely no objection from me."

He slowly lifted his head, immediately regretted the decision, and closed his eyes again as another pulse of pain travelled through his skull.

"We also need to make a move for the transporter," he added, forcing himself to focus. "We've got to get to our shuttle and then on to Mars."

There was a brief pause.

"Preferably before I have to endure another sunrise."

"Another?" Syvar queried, gratefully accepting the mug as David handed one to his father and then to him. "Thank you David. Yes we need to get to the ship but first coffee." He managed a small smile. "Doctor's orders."

Marc accepted the mug David offered with a grateful nod, then took a long pull of the warm coffee. "I wouldn't call that an order," he said hoarsely, "more of a present necessity."

"And a shower," the doctor added. "Can't appear like this captain... you're a mess. David, please get your father a fresh uniform while we try to ah ...get more clear headed." Despite his own feelings if fuzziness, the Vulcan was surprisingly coherent.

The teenager nodded and came back with not one but two uniforms, handing a blue one to their guest "doctors should be presentable too," he remarked, seeming more merciful to their guest than his own father. "I'll see you both in a few."

Marc watched his son disappear back into the house, a mixture of pride and affection settling warmly in his chest despite the relentless pounding behind his eyes. "He's a good kid," he said quietly, more to himself than to Syvar. "Been through more than any fifteen-year-old should have to endure. Probably why he's turning into such a hardass." A laugh started to bubble up—the kind that felt good for half a second before his hangover reminded him exactly why laughter was a terrible idea. He winced sharply, pressing a hand to his temple as another wave of pain radiated through his skull. "Ow. Noted. No laughing."

He turned to Syvar, managing a rueful smile despite the discomfort. "Come on, Doctor. Best we do as the boy says before he comes back out here and starts shouting at you too. I don't think either of us is in any condition to withstand David in full sergeant-major mode."

"Indeed," Syvar agreed, "and swing by sickbay for some proper anti hangover medication."

END

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