Madrie & Leland: Is a Talk Needed?

Posted on 02 Aug 2026 @ 7:54am by Master Chief Petty Officer Harrison Madrie & Lieutenant Commander Leland Hawksley
Edited on on 02 Aug 2026 @ 7:54am

8,585 words; about a 43 minute read

Mission: S04 Episode 02 The Hackers Backdoor (Incidentals)
Location: Deck 08, Main Fighter Bay Operations/Maintenance
Timeline: Current

ON:

Leland finished his shift. He made sure to time it with a Master Chief Petty Officer Harrison Madrie. There was a few notes on Officer Madrie that had popped up from the USS Tomcat’s auxiliary maintenance bay reports. He didn’t like them. Despite Leland issuing a few maintenance warnings to the Flight Officer’s, he wanted to check in himself.

The last thing he wanted to do was to give someone hell for working on improvements, refinements to the shuttles, fighters and the like. Leland heard himself in the man when he had read the report. Mandrie was 31 years old. He assumed as usual cocky, self assured, a bit of a maverick. Wasn’t that the calling card for Fighter Pilots? He knew Maggie was one.

He had to speak to Maggie a few times, despite Hewitts scoffing.

“Let her play around. What is she going to hurt?” Hewitt chastised Leland with his best El-Aurian brow beating. Despite that. Despite the brilliant work that Maggie and now Madrie was working on, it had to be documented. It had to be looked at. Starfleet had a way of biting Leland’s ass when he least expected it with nasty communications from Fleet Engineering Communications Staffers, constantly telling Leland to monitor his teams. They didn’t like it. The Tomcat was already known as a bit of a Maverick vessel, what with the 95th Rifles and All.

Leland knew too well. His Cass. She was a Marine Commanding Officer on the USS Churchill, and every few minutes his mind wandered to what would Cass be doing right now on the Churchill? Damn. He was a lucky man… Leland lived and breathed Cass.

“Alright. Let’s take a look.” Hawksley entered the main turbo lift as the door shut, he turned around barking out “Deck eight. Main Fighter Bay.”

The doors slid. The door closed. Leland stood there, his face always on the lookout. His brown eyes watching the turbo lift, the sounds of it, the vibrations, the dampener sounds… All running according to text books. Good. The ship was surprisingly doing well since he had overseen the retrofit with Sharpe. Good man. He had made a note to check in on the good friend he had made during that year, especially since he had a new child. Leland beamed. That would be him one day soon, very soon with Cass. He just needed to do the deed.

The lift then stopped. He raised his hand to his mouth, letting out a cough, clearing his throat. As he did, one cough out of his mouth a muffled sounding fart had come out of his other end.

His face literally burst in to a laugh. “Jesus, Leland… You dog.”

He snorted. He then decided to ensure that he got out of the lift and then paused the lift for one minute. He didn’t want anyone else to get in to that cloud he had just raunched on the lift. Shaking his head. Leland then ensured no lingering made its way with him. Walking down the Tomcat corridor, passing

Officers along the way he gave the occasional smile and nod. He enjoyed the Tomcat. Good people. Good officers. Great technology. What was there not to like being stationed on her. Well. That distance again. Not being around Cass. But that would soon be over…




Deck 08 – Main Fighter Bay Operations – Maintenance Center


Entering through the large blast doorway, the groaning of the deck doors opened large and loudly. The ships bulk heads were engineered now to withstand some of the heaviest barrage of the latest enemy weapons out there. The doors then started a slow but gradual closing behind him as Leland stood there.

He placed his large hands at his hips, he lent a hand to scratch at the side of his noggin, taking a look around. The place was very familiar to him. He loved chatting with the Fighter Pilots because all of them had a considerable background in.

Engineering and fixing their own craft. Often leading to the “upgrading” that was frowned upon by Mandrie. At least that was the reports that lent a pain in his ass, not the fart, but the pain of having to keep up with what was going on in a totally different department.

In the shuttered lights, the night shift was beginning. Hawksley took a look at his wrist watch, the time was now around 1800 hours.

Leland let his hand feel along the fighter crafts as he walked further in to the bay. They cleaned up well. The bay always had to ensure that the floors, the mechanical supports were placed in standby modes, as to ensure that the fighters could be launched on a moments notice, given the Tomcat was always on the guard in the Sector.

Finding a light on. Leland narrowed his eyes. There was someone in the Fighter Bay Operations Offices. “Computer. That Mandrie in the fighter office?”

“Confirmed. Master Chief Petty Officer Harrison Madrie is currently in Main Fighter Deck Operations Center as of 1800 hours.” The computer confirmed.

“Wonderful.” Hawksley walked through the remaining distance as he then stopped at the Fighter Replicators and ordered a silver mug of coffee. He had wanted to perk himself up to have a conversation, meet the man, and suss him out. Just what kind of character was he?

Taking the warm cup of coffee, double cream, double sweetner Leland took a sip of it. Testing how hot it was. Sometimes the replicators could be a real bitch, giving you a cup of scalding coffee without warming. Blame it on the AI updates he groaned inside. It was good. Tasted good. Tasted as usual.

Lending a loud cough, this time without the other end giving a fart, like in the elevator earlier. Leland knocked on the window outside of the Fighter Bay Operations Offices. Sure enough, inside was a male, about 31, just like in the mans records he had read, was Mandrie.

Leland walked in to the room seeing the Officer. “Hawksley. Leland. Chief Engineer.” Hawksley lent a slight smile, not wanting to come off as being a complete asshole bent on ruining the mans fun. At least not yet. The talk would come if Leland didn’t like the inspection on the craft he would conduct before leaving…

“MCPO Madrie. Harrison is it?” Leland walked in with his shoulders tall and gruffed, always lending his weight around meeting another male.

Harrison looked up from the diagnostic display projected above his workstation the instant he heard the knock on the glass. He'd already noticed the Chief Engineer twenty seconds earlier on the security feed.

Engineers always walked with purpose. Pilots always noticed who was walking toward them.

He rose from his chair, setting down the PADD he'd been annotating. The office was littered with exploded schematics of Raider interceptors, impulse manifold cross sections, and enough empty coffee mugs to suggest he'd been there since before alpha shift. One fighter's EPS routing diagram was pinned to the bulkhead with handwritten notes covering nearly every blank space.

The moment Leland introduced himself, Harrison's eyes flicked briefly to the rank pips before returning to the man's face. The grin came naturally.

"That obvious, huh?" He stepped forward, extending a grease-marked hand. "Master Chief Petty Officer Harrison Madrie. Raider Four."

His grip was firm without trying to prove anything. "Pleased to finally meet the legend who's been keeping this old girl held together with equal parts brilliance and profanity." A crooked smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I've heard the stories." His eyes wandered briefly to the coffee cup. "...And judging by the double cream and enough sweetener to violate Federation nutritional regulations..." He shrugged innocently. "...they're probably true."

There was enough humor in his voice to break the tension without crossing into disrespect. Something in Leland's face however spoke volumes.

Right. One of those conversations. He was prepared.

He'd seen enough command officers to recognize the posture. Someone hadn't come down to admire the décor. Particularly the more recent racing stripes added to the old birdie. Or was it the Smiling cat decon on the nose?

Harrison leaned casually against the edge of the desk, folding his arms. "So..." His eyebrow lifted.

"I've got about six different theories why the Chief Engineer is visiting Fighter Operations after shift."

He began counting them off on his fingers.

"One... the replicator finally admitted my coffee habit is a system wide power drain."

"Two... someone finally noticed Raider Four's nose art." He paused. "...For the record, the cat looked better with sunglasses."

Another finger. "Three... you're recruiting engineers for an underground poker league."

He looked hopefully at Leland. "...If that's it, I'm interested." A beat. "No?" He sighed theatrically. "Shame."

The smile faded just enough for professionalism to return. "Which leaves four through six."

He nodded toward the maintenance reports stacked on the desk. "My modifications." No defensiveness. No excuses. Just acknowledgement. "I figured those reports would eventually find their way upstairs."

He walked over to the nearest schematic and tapped a highlighted section of a Raider's impulse regulator.
"I don't hot-rod Starfleet equipment because I enjoy paperwork." Another tap. "I modify things because I fly them." His voice carried absolute certainty. "I know exactly how these birds sound when they're happy."

Another schematic appeared as he swiped the console. "And I know the difference between 'within Starfleet tolerances' and 'going to strand me three light-years from home because someone designed that plasma coupler from behind a desk.'"

He looked back toward Hawksley. "If I find a weakness, I fix it. If I think it'll improve pilot survivability..." His shoulders lifted in an unapologetic shrug. "...I improve it." A dry smile returned. "Then I fill out the paperwork." He paused. "...Usually."

The admission hung in the air for half a second before he continued. "I've never modified anything that couldn't be returned to factory specifications within an hour. I document everything." He reached into a drawer and slid over three organized data padds.

Every adjustment. Every diagnostic. Every stress test. Every simulated failure. Even projected maintenance intervals. "I know Engineering has to answer to Starfleet, So do I."

He folded his arms again. "If something I've done is unsafe..." His expression became completely serious. "...tell me. I'll tear it out tonight. No argument. But if it makes these fighters tougher..." He smiled once more, that familiar Raider confidence returning. "...I'd rather convince you than sneak around you."

He chuckled. "Besides..." His eyes wandered over the pristine fighter bay outside the office windows. "The Tomcat already has enough people calling us cowboys." He looked squarely at Hawksley. "No sense proving them right."

Then, after a thoughtful beat, his trademark deadpan resurfaced. "Although...between you and me I prefer 'highly motivated aerospace problem solver.'" A grin spread across his face. "It sounds much better in the incident reports."

Leland was surprised. Mandrie knew he was coming. Mandrie knew the usual dress down regarding fighter modifications. Leland knew full well that Mandrie knew what he was there for and exactly what he was supposed to state. There was no way to start this conversation on the usual banter of getting to know him. Mandrie was a book and he laid out everything the moment Hawksley had entered.

From the usual cocky attitude. Check. Got that, the Man knows what he is doing Leland thought to himself. Secondly, he was impressed. Shocking. This wasn’t Maggie. Maggie didn’t like the paperwork, at least the few times Hewitt had stated that he would do the paperwork for Maggie. Covering her tight ass as usual. Leland’s eyes focused on the schematics, his left bio synthetic eye that was secretly hidden in his noggin from a knife bar fight at 18, expertly read things through within seconds. Not the work of technology, but the work of Leland’s mechanical prowess.

“Ok. Presentation and Efforts. A plus.” Leland stepped in to the office as he relaxed. The environment was similar to the Engineering offices. “I like that you like coffee. We have that very much in common. Second. I like that you like poker. If you like cigarettes, the occasional cigar, and won’t guffaw about that, we’re golden.”

Leland was too tired anyways at this point. “Mind if I take a seat?” Leland didn’t want to look like a son of a bitch walking in and crushing the Fighter Pilots hard work. He could tell that the Man was well on his way to becoming something very good. Some day, he might overtake Maggie, god help us all.

Leland rolled out the Fighter comfy chair on rollers and took a much needed seat. He had just finished his own shift and he gave all kudos to Mandrie for indulging in his work.

“Music computer. Mammas and the Pappas….” He gauged.

“California Dreamin’.” The music then begun to start in the background… Leland then looked around and took out his pack of cigarettes, he then sat his feet up on the long desk that was between both him and Mandie along the wall of the office. He carefully gauged not to set his feet too close as to show any disrespect. There clearly was enough distance to do so comfortably and talk.

Finding a hyper spanner with a cylindrical onset, with a type 4 NY Electro-Blastic Lazer, he expertly lit his cigarette. Leland then slid the spanner across the distance as he set down his metal mug of coffee along with the pack of cigarettes leaning back in his seat as the back gave way to the recline…

“Im not here to bust your balls. I actually like to make friends, especially since…” Leland looked at his wrist watch. “Were just past 1800 and were both day shifts, so were both off the clock.” Hawksley narrowed his eyes as he blew the smoke away from the Officer, again, not wanting to be an asshole.

“Show me…” He lent his hand forward. “The retrofits. I need to see em.” Hawkley was actually interested in doing so. As Mandrie had then slid them over to Leland across the desk, he then looked at the padd, pressing the few lcars to skip through the mechanical workings… “Replicator. On the Fighter.”

Hawksley deadpanned Mandrie in the same way he had just done a moment before. Leland was enjoying this… “That one. Your not drawing from any critical systems. Check. Let’s just say you need it for your medication or something in a crisis. It’s been done before.” He shrugged. “Logic. Logic dear Mandrie. That will pass if you want your coffee, snacks whatever the sort in your fighter. I understand it all.” Leland shifted through em.

“Ok. Fourth re-set on the Dihydrate Intermix Allocator. Does it need to be on the left flank of the bulk head, sub box. Why so? Explain to me like I’m four.” He gruffed. “But again. I see that you’ve added with that the extra azimuth to 0.0078 Millecochranes. Impressive. A bit out of the cat box working it through the circuitry, but…I mean kudos to that.” He nodded slowly getting ideas for his own Engineering workings down in the Core.

He held up his hand for a moment. “Is that a Cat decal..." He scoffed. "Whats with that? We don't want to offend our Caitian friends... Did you account for the atmospheric wind sheer metrics on the decal layout?.. Its not added in the mod docs… I mean it’s a decal but when your reporting to the ass wipes at the Fleet… They bust my ass for not reporting decal media-theatrical componentry.” He deadpanned again. “That’s what they call it to me… I had to look it up to see if they were wringing my balls through an organ press again, but… Just update those, and I don’t see why you needed to be checked in on these things. Why do you think I keep on getting these reports down in Engineering, if your reporting and documenting as well as you do Mandrie. I like it. I like your work, a lot. Your doing a great job.” Leland didn’t see anything odd, as he again looked to the wall scematics hand written in the room. “Literal hand writing. Your literal hand writing. I like that, easier to scope out under the hood.” Leland leaned forward as he ran his finger, reading the hand writing on the wall documents pasted by Mandrie in his office.

“I definitely want to see your poker face too. We need a game together.” Leland liked him already. He smiled. “I need to check the fighter out myself though. Maybe you can replicate me a cat sticker myself. I have a whole set of wall panels in the jeffries tubes I could slap some crap up, as my own call sign. Why you fighters have to always slap stuff on your craft?” Leland was perplexed himself. Everything in engineering was clean as a virgin, he liked polished and Starfleet Factory specs.

Harrison watched the Chief Engineer work through the schematics with the kind of speed normally reserved for tactical computers and over caffeinated quartermasters.

His smirk slowly widened. ‘Well…’ he muttered, reaching for his own mug. "There goes my theory that Engineering only pretends to read these things."

He leaned back in his own chair now, boots crossing at the ankles.

"So first off..." he raised his coffee mug in salute. "Thank you for not walking in here breathing fire and quoting subsection twelve of the Starfleet Engineering Manual. I had three betting pools running in Raider Squadron. One had you throwing my padd out the nearest airlock."

A beat. "I just lost fifty credits." He took a sip of coffee.

"And anyone who lights a cigarette with a hyperspanner has officially earned guest privileges." Harrison picked up the schematics and tapped the highlighted section.

"The replicator was actually Maggie's fault." He held up a finger. "Not because she asked for it." Another finger. "Because I watched her spend four straight hours surviving on coffee and protein bars after a thirty-hour combat patrol." Third finger. "So I figured if we're stranding pilots in deep space for emergency recon, maybe having the ability to replicate a ration pack, electrolyte solution, or medical supplement wasn't the worst engineering crime ever committed."

He shrugged innocently. "...The fact that it can also make cinnamon rolls is purely a morale feature." His grin became positively shameless.

"As for the Dihydrate Intermix Allocator..." He stood and walked over to the wall schematic, grabbing a grease pencil. "Everyone assumes the left bulkhead location is arbitrary." He drew three quick circles. "It isn't." Another line. "Current placement means replacing the unit requires removing two access panels, disconnecting an EPS manifold, and asking the universe for forgiveness." He slid the component six centimeters on the drawing. "Move it here..." Another line. "...and the whole assembly can be swapped in ninety-three seconds by one mechanic wearing EVA gloves."

He looked back at Leland. "That's not a combat optimization." He pointed toward Engineering. "That's me trying not to make your people hate me." He smiled. "The extra azimuth correction compensates for the slightly longer conduit run after relocating it."

Then...Leland had mentioned...The cat.

Harrison froze dramatically as he calculated. Then he slowly turned toward the engineer as though he'd just questioned gravity itself. "...Sir..." He lowered his voice.

"...That..." He pointed at the decal. "...is Lieutenant Whiskers." A solemn nod. "Decorated veteran." Another nod. "Eight confirmed morale victories. Caitians being a warrior race should appreciate, no, celebrate even the representation I am providing. It is a fighter after all."

Then he completely ruined the seriousness. "Officially the decal increases pilot confidence by approximately eleven percent." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Unofficially...it annoys the maintenance inspectors."

He straightened. "As for atmospheric shear?" He flipped another page. "Page forty-two." He pointed. "I absolutely calculated it." a beat. "I just forgot to write it down because I got distracted deciding whether Lieutenant Whiskers deserved aviator sunglasses." He explained. “Still considering it.”

When Leland mentioned Fleet paperwork… Harrison groaned so dramatically it deserved an award. "Oh don't even get me started on the paper work." He rubbed both temples. "'Media-Theatrical Componentry.'”

He looked toward the ceiling. "Some admiral had to invent that phrase after losing a poker game." He shook his head. "I'll update the paperwork." Another sip of coffee. "I'll even put the dimensions of Lieutenant Whiskers' whiskers in the appendix if it'll keep Fleet from sending you angry messages."

At the mention of poker, Harrison's brown eyes lit up. "Now poker. That...is a dangerous invitation."

He leaned his forearms onto the desk. "I don't bluff much. I just smile until people start making bad decisions."

His gaze drifted back toward Leland for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "You seem like the type that enjoys calling bluffs." A playful smirk crossed his face. "I appreciate confidence……It's... attractive."

He took another sip before adding with perfectly deadpan timing, "From a competitive standpoint, of course." He gave a playful wink before he leaned forward, and folded the schematics closed.

"You know...I was expecting an interrogation. Instead, what I got..." He nodded respectfully. "...was an engineer who actually understands why pilots modify things."

His grin softened into genuine appreciation. "I like that. Thank you.” So the chief engineer was smart and handsome, he noted. Good to know.

"Cigars? I'm partial too. Cigarettes?” He shrugged, “Now coffee?" He lifted the mug. "Legally speaking, this is probably seventy percent of my blood."

"You and me both Brother!" He nodded. "Respect!"

Harrison grinned.

Leland grinned with reservation. He was still sussing out Mandrie. But as things went onward… The man was interesting.

Leland liked interesting. He definitely was the fighter type he could calculate, but he wasn’t as cocky as he thought he would be. Here he was spending the hours doing his own work. Leland still didn’t understand why he was being told to check in. This wasn’t necessarily Leland’s total control… The fighter units integrated well with Ops and Engineering, but things criss crossed. Hawksley was told to check up as far as paper work. Again. Why? He was Engineering. Perhaps it was Starfleet busting Leland’s balls. Not Mandrie.

“Bastards…” Leland muttered to himself. “I suspect this isn’t your issue. I’m realizing one jerk at the asswipe command is trying to shore me up. Jesus christ, fucking B’Ly-Kek. That Klingon Engineer thinks his he has special powers to destroy someone as far as 57,000 light years across the quadrant.”

“I need you to sign off on this here, that I have ‘given you the talk’, just to cover myself. Again. Fucking B’Ly-kek!!” Leland took a drink from his mug this time as he lent his cigarette into the nearest uncleared, used coffee cup on Mandries desk…

Absolutely. Harrison isn't one to get wrapped around the axle over bureaucracy. He's the kind of seasoned Chief who knows paperwork exists solely to justify someone else's desk job. He'd meet Leland's frustration with dry wit, make the process painless, and maybe get a jab in at Starfleet bureaucracy.

Harrison watched the engineer's tirade with the practiced patience of someone who had survived more mandatory briefings than actual crash landings. By the time Leland finished cursing the mysterious B'Ly-Kek, the Master Chief was already reaching for the PADD.

A crooked grin spread across his face.

"So..." he said, scrolling to the signature block. "You're telling me I survived atmospheric reentries, Borg drones, and a Romulan trying to ventilate my cockpit..." He scribbled his authorization with a flourish. "...but the thing that finally kills me is Starfleet paperwork."

He handed the PADD back. "There. You've officially talked at me. Whether I listened is classified." His eyes drifted to the cigarette now smoldering in an abandoned coffee cup.

"You know..." Harrison leaned back in his chair. "I've been trying to figure you out, Commander." He nodded toward the improvised ashtray. "Most engineers lose their minds when I scratch the paint on a Raider. You?" He chuckled. "You just set your cigarette on my desk and declared war on administrative forms."

His grin widened. "I think we're gonna get along just fine."

After a beat, he added in his usual deadpan tone. "And for the record... if B'Ly-Kek ever transfers aboard, I give it three days before one of us gets written up." He paused thoughtfully. "...Could be me." Another beat. "...Probably me."

Hawksley grinned. He beamed as he grunted.


“So. I cost you 50 credits. That’s all? I’m seriously offended Harrison... Why do I feel that I wanted you to loose MORE.” Leland grinned further. “I didn’t follow through on your fantasy. Now follow through on the payment! Don’t tell me. It’s not LeFebvre you bet with? She wins a lot. You’d best steer clear of her habits!” He cocked his head to the left. Inhailing Leland looked through the schematics some more…


“So. What else do we have here… I want to know not what you’ve done, per se. I want to know what you're planning to do. I can still be concerned right? Placate me. Now.” Hawksley winked.


“And next time you bet. Bet on Somer’s. She always has the best decisions that are logical that will gain the most credits. Her decisions on inter-species diplomacy. I’ve made a killing in of itself. Enough to raise a small army of latinum bots.” Leland got up from his seat.


“Come my Brother. I want to see your fighter. Does she purr as well as she looks?” Hawksley quizzed. He then butted out his cigarette in to the old mug of dried, stained coffee.” Hawksley gestured with his large Engineer hands.

Here's a version that keeps Harrison's established voice: dry, playful, a little flirty without being overt, and clearly enjoying Leland's company. The respect comes through in the banter rather than sentimentality.

Harrison barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he pushed away from the desk.

"Only fifty credits? C'mon, Commander... I'm a Chief. We don't make officer money." His grin widened. "Besides, I wasn't betting against you." He pointed a finger toward Leland.

"I was betting the universe would find some creative way to annoy you before the day was over." His eyes flicked toward the stack of paperwork. "Looks like I won." At the question about future modifications, Harrison adopted the expression of a man contemplating a profound engineering mystery. "Hmm...I could tell you..."

He let the silence linger just long enough. "...but then Engineering would file three preventative maintenance requests, Security would open an investigation, and Ops would schedule a meeting to discuss the meeting."

His lips curled into a lopsided smirk. "So for everyone's sanity, let's just call my future plans 'iterative improvements to pilot survivability.'" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Which is bureaucrat for 'I've got ideas.'"

The mention of Captain Somers drew a chuckle. "Noted. Bet with Somers. Never against the Captain. That's less gambling and more natural selection."

Harrison grabbed his flight jacket off the back of his chair and slung it over one shoulder.

"As for Lil' Purr-Meister..." His expression softened with unmistakable pride. "She doesn't purr." He looked back at Leland, a mischievous glint dancing in his brown eyes. "She growls. And if she starts purring, I'm taking her to Sickbay because something's broken." He motioned toward the hatch. "C'mon, Chief. I'll introduce you properly."

As they headed for the door, Harrison glanced sideways at Leland with another crooked smile "Fair warning, though...She's the second prettiest thing in this hangar."

He let that hang in the air for half a second before adding with impeccable deadpan. "The first is the warp core." His grin betrayed him immediately.


-Fighter Bay-


Walking out of the Fighters Office… Leland stated. “Wait. Bring along your latest duty logs.” He stopped a moment.


Waiting Leland then commented. “I find this off-putting. Why am I not smelling reminants of dihydrized montheoloic gass residues. These fighters piss on the floor all the time?!” He was impressed once again. The bay was spotless. “It’s Maggie isn’t it. She cleans the floors with that grease shit right? You still use that grease shit?” He questioned as Mandrie had reached up with Leland already walking through back towards Mandrie’s baby.


“You had best replicate me a Roll for my coffee too. I ain’t here rent free. The Cinnamon thing needs inspecting as well.” Hawksley guffed. He patted his stomach already grumbling for a quick eat. It was a long day…


“… And hyperspanner. Naw.” He regarded Harrison. “I can call you Harrison, that ok?” Hawksley just offered Mandrie his respect with the comment. “I have destroyed. De-stroy-eD so much peripherals trying to gain a quick light… You wouldn’t believe the hidden stash of junk I’ve created. Although, I made a quick piece of awesome metallic, junk art in my office out of em’ really is a master piece. I ain’t no artist, but damn. I can create some good art out of old crap. I should sell em’ to the Art Institute on Haakan Prime. They really dig the shit.”

Harrison grabbed his duty logs from the office without breaking stride, catching up to Leland with an amused shake of his head. "Maggie's cleaning compound?" He chuckled. "Yeah, we still use it. She'll swear to her dying breath it's the only thing keeping this deck from looking like a plasma manifold exploded."

He glanced around the spotless bay. "Truth be told, none of us are brave enough to argue with her. Not even me." Truth was he respected her too much to argue with her. He would be damned if he told anyone else that though.

"Maggie would have my hide if I called it 'grease shit' to her face." He held up the PADD with a shrug. "She swears by the stuff. Says if the deck's clean enough to eat off of, the pilots are less likely to leave parts of themselves on it." He glanced around the immaculate bay with obvious appreciation. "I don't ask questions. I just nod, stay out of her way, and enjoy not sticking to the deck plates."

A beat passed before he smirked. "And trust me, Chief... if you can smell dihydrized montheoloic gas, something's gone catastrophically wrong."

When Leland mentioned the cinnamon roll, Harrison held up a finger. "Easy there, Chief. One inspection at a time. If we stop for pastries now, you'll never actually get to the fighter."

His grin widened. "I'll make you a deal. If Lil' Purr-Meister passes muster, coffee and a cinnamon roll are on me." As they continued walking, Harrison looked over when Leland asked about using his first name.

A lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Harrison's fine. 'Master Chief' usually means I'm either in trouble or someone's about to volunteer me for something." The story about the hyperspanners earned a genuine laugh.

"I don't know, Commander... if Starfleet ever figures out how much they spend replacing your smoking tools, they might classify your office as a salvage yard."

He glanced sideways with a mischievous smirk. "Though now you've got me curious. After we're done here, I may have to inspect this legendary junk sculpture. Strictly as a quality assurance measure, of course."

He gave Lil' Purr-Meister an affectionate pat as they approached.

"Now, this is the lady I was telling you about. Raider four. Beautiful beyond words right?" There was obvious affection in Harrison's voice. Like that of a proud parent presenting a particularly talented and lovely child. “Second most beautiful thing in the hangar currently.”

Leland scanned his eyes of the environment as they reached Mandrie’s fighter. Hawksley stood aside as to let Harrison take the cue to not disrespect the Mans fighter.


“Noted on the Replicator. I like protein bars. LeFebvre picks the best ones. Follow her oracle.” He grunted. He enjoyed talking about Maggie with Mandrie. He had some stories he bet he could relay to Cass. There was that word again. Cass. A feeling washed over him. Reorienting himself, Leland nodded at the Fighter.


“Tell me more stories. I like this. What pisses off LeFebvre?!” Oh he wanted ammunition!


Harrison rested a hand on Lil' Purr-Meister's nose, the familiar gesture almost unconscious. At Maggie's name, his grin softened.

"Oh, that's easy." He looked over at Leland with a knowing smirk. "Sloppy workmanship. Doesn't matter if you're a Chief, an Ensign, or the Captain herself. If she finds a loose conduit, an unsecured panel, or a plasma fitting that's 'good enough,' she'll give you a look that'll have you apologizing to the deck plates."

He chuckled quietly. "She's modified her Raider so many times I'm not convinced Starfleet still recognizes it as the same fighter. The scary part?" He tapped the hull affectionately. "Her math is usually right." A beat passed. "One time she shaved just enough mass off a sensor housing to squeeze another fraction of a percent out of her maneuvering profile. Engineering spent two days trying to figure out why she was turning tighter than the flight model allowed."

His smile grew a little more wistful. "Turns out Maggie had left the calculations on a napkin next to the coffee pot."

He folded his arms. "She's on maternity leave now, so the bay's... quieter." There was the faintest hint of nostalgia in his voice. "I miss arguing with her. That's probably the highest compliment I can give another pilot."

Then Harrison's trademark grin returned. "But if you're looking for ammunition..." He leaned in conspiratorially. "...tell her her modifications are 'adequate.'" He paused just long enough. "...Then start running." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Actually... don't. She'd catch you. It will be worse if you make her run I think."

Leland laughed. Harrison was a hoot!!! “Deal it. I got it. You’re a credit on the manifold manipulation re-orientation guidelines. I could use your eye down in Engineering… But don’t tell Thex, or Todd I told you that. They get… Jealous. Very….” Leland scoffed rolling his eyes. “Babies.”


Hawksley inspected the left flank for anything that Engineering would consider a non-sequitor, mechanically speaking. An Engineer not only fixated on fixing things, but seeing things beyond their life cycle. Stress usage, re-peated maxxing out of the craft assembly gravametrics… But there wasn’t an issue. His confidence was growing.


Watching as Mandrie casually, expertly walked around the larger fighter craft, he could tell that the Man definitely could do this all with his eyes closed like a raccoon on the holodeck at the Cabin during an outing with Dodd!


“Lil’ Purr-Meister!!!” Leland took a swig from his silver mug, swallowing the coffee. Again. It tasted good. It kept him in step… Hawkish rather. Leland rubbed his fingers along the decal. “What made you come up with the design? Whats the background to the Cat?” Leland found it fascinating the whole mythos of Fighter call signs, Fighter grafffetti. Alone it was rather a romantic idea of endearing ones self to their crafts.

Harrison looked at the nose art for a long second before answering. For just a heartbeat, it seemed like he was weighing half a dozen sarcastic responses.

"I was gonna tell you it's an ancient Martian good-luck spirit," he said with a crooked grin. "Or that every fighter pilot gets issued one after their third near-death experience."

He took another sip of coffee and shook his head.

"Nah. Truth's less exciting." His expression softened just a touch. "Sh'asi. The morale officer."

He tapped the painted Caitian with a gloved finger. "She mentioned once she'd always wanted to see what flying a Raider was like... but wasn't sure she'd ever have the nerve to climb into one."

A shrug rolled through his shoulders. "I can't make somebody fearless. That's above my pay grade." A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "But I can make sure she gets to fly with me every mission." He gave the artwork an approving nod.

"So... Lil' Purr-Meister. She keeps watch over the jet, reminds me there's more to life than vaporizing bad guys, and if anyone asks..." He flashed Leland a mischievous grin. "...it's absolutely because the fighter insisted on having a mascot. I just work here."

“Ok. The Meister comment. I forgot. You calculated and added Lt. Whiskers for the whole moral booster values. I can appreciate that. Sh’asi would be proud…” Leland then made a quick snap shot of the picture to his neural eye interface with his Engineer tricorder on his belt. “I’ve taken note of Lt. Whiskers. If Sh’asi likes it. We’re all good. But I mean… It’s… Yeah, its cute. I like it…” He then took another drink of his coffee.


“Hurry up, lets get in there. I want my Cinnamon Roll. ANDDd I want some credit for the Bet you had placed on me. Such a shame you miscalculated me… Such a damn shame.” Leland grunted. He would have to spill that to Cass. A whole bet placed on him. He was gaining a reputation in the ranks and he liked to boast to Cass about it. She was his greatest cheer leader…


God he missed her.


Looking at his watch, Mandrie had opened the fighter. “I’m getting cranky. I need that Cinnamon roll firstly…” Leland followed Harrison inside the fighter, reaching the top of the craft gangway door arch as he entered.

Harrison slipped into the cockpit and leaned back over the canopy rail with a grin that practically invited another round of banter. "You know, Chief... for a man who's supposedly here to inspect my fighter, you've spent an awful lot of time complimenting her." He gave the canopy an affectionate pat. "I'm starting to think Lil' Purr-Meister's stealing my spotlight."
As Leland climbed aboard, Harrison shrugged innocently.

"And I didn't lose the bet." He held up a finger. "I invested fifty credits in research. The results came back positive." He flashed a crooked smile. "Turns out you're exactly the kind of engineer every pilot wants crawling around his bird."

Reaching over to the small mission replicator tucked behind the pilot's seat, he tapped in a quick order. "Computer... one cinnamon roll, extra warm. One fresh coffee, double cream, double sweetner ." The replicator hummed to life, materializing both with a soft shimmer.

Harrison retrieved them with a flourish and handed them over. "There you go. Engineering fuel."

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "I've learned it's cheaper to keep a Chief Engineer caffeinated and fed than it is to let him start redesigning my cockpit because he's hungry."

His eyes danced with mischief. "Besides..." he added with a sly grin, "if I keep you happy, maybe next time you'll only inspect half my modifications." A beat. "...Actually..." He looked thoughtfully at the Raider's console. "Scratch that. I think I'd rather have you inspect all of them."

He met Leland's eyes with a warm, teasing smile. "You're kind of growing on me, Chief." Then, almost instantly, Harrison ruined the sincerity with impeccable timing. “Dispite being an engineer and all.”

Harison then leaned forward. “Besides, I still need to see if you can beat me in poker.” He smirked. “See if the smile works on you.”

“Smiling as your poker face?” Leland guffawed. His eyes noting the basics of the interior of the craft, looking for any oddities that he should be alarmed about Harrison’s spec reversals. Nothing too apparent. But he had wanted to see the main computer… “Cute. Though… Most people hide their tells. You just broadcast ‘I’m full of shit’ with perfect dental symmetry.”


He laughed to himself. “We definitely need to play poker!”

Harrison watched Leland take another bite of the cinnamon roll and had to fight the urge to laugh. Not because anything was funny.

Well... not entirely. It was just... unexpected. ‘Cute’ he had said. Harrison filed that away mentally for later inspection.

Here was Leland Hawksley. Chief Engineer. The man who could probably make a warp core apologize for malfunctioning. The guy who had spent the last hour inspecting a Raider like he was trying to determine whether Harrison had secretly bolted a second impulse engine onto it.

And now?

Now he was sitting in the cockpit of a fighter, happily eating a cinnamon roll like he'd just discovered the greatest engineering advancement in Federation history.

‘That's actually kind of adorable.’The thought arrived uninvited. Harrison immediately filed it away under things he was absolutely not going to admit out loud. Because he had a reputation. Mostly.

A grin tugged at his mouth anyway. "Careful, Chief." He nodded toward the pastry. "You keep looking that happy while eating a cinnamon roll and people are going to start questioning your terrifying engineer reputation." He leaned against the console. "I mean, five minutes ago you were threatening my fighter with a full inspection. Now you're sitting there looking like someone handed you a winning lottery ticket."

He shook his head. "Very intimidating." A pause. "Truly." His eyes flicked briefly over Leland's inspection of the cockpit. The funny thing was, Harrison had expected an engineer to come in looking for reasons to ground him. To find faults. To prove the reckless pilot had done something stupid. Instead, Leland was curious. Interested. Actually listening. That earned more respect from Harrison than he was willing to admit. "Also..."

He pointed at Leland. "For the record, I wasn't saying you could inspect all my modifications because I think you can find something wrong." A beat. "I said it because if anyone can find something wrong, it's you." He smirked. "Which is somehow both insulting and a compliment."

Then the poker challenge came up and Harrison laughed.

"Oh, this is going to be fun." He crossed his arms. "You think my smile is my tell?" He tilted his head. "Chief, my entire personality is a tell." A wicked grin. "That's the trick." He tapped the side of his nose.

"People think I'm bluffing because I look like I'm bluffing." A pause. "Then they get comfortable." Another pause. "Then I take their credits." He looked toward the cinnamon roll.

"Although..." His eyes narrowed playfully. "I may have discovered your weakness." A mock-serious expression crossed his face. "That's dangerous information for a pilot to have."

He settled into the seat. "Poker night rules are simple. No cheating. No engineering tricks. No scanning my cards with some fancy device." A grin. "And absolutely no bribing the dealer with cinnamon rolls." He paused. "Unless they're really good cinnamon rolls." A small laugh escaped him. "Then we'll have to negotiate terms." He chuckled at his own joke.

Harrison glanced over at Leland as the engineer continued his inspection, a knowing smirk slowly appearing. "You know..."

He nodded towards Raider 2 sitting empty a few spaces away in the bay. "I think you might be one of the few people aboard who fully understands the Maggie LeFebvre experience." He paused. "Which means you already know the most terrifying part." A beat. "She's usually right."

Harrison sighed dramatically. "I hate that." He tapped the console. "She'll walk into the bay, look at a fighter for about thirty seconds, and say something like, 'I think she is unhappy.'"

He looked at Leland. "And then somehow, after Engineering spends six hours proving she shouldn't know what she's talking about..." He shrugged. "...she's right." He chuckled. "That's Maggie."

His expression softened. "She's not reckless because she doesn't care. She's reckless because she trusts herself. Sometimes too much." He looked over the Raider. "She's one of the best pilots I've ever flown with." A pause. "And before you say anything, yes, I know. She's also one of the biggest headaches you've ever had in Engineering. Besides me." He winked. Then a grin.

"Probably tied with that Hewitt fellow." Harrison shook his head. "Todd is a good guy, though." There was genuine respect in his voice. "Smart engineer. Patient. Which is important because apparently surviving Maggie requires either incredible patience or a complete disregard for self-preservation." A smirk. "Thankfully, Todd has both." He glanced toward Leland. "I'll give him credit. Most people would need a manual to keep up with her." A pause. "Todd just looked at her and said, 'Yeah, that's my person.'" Harrison nodded. "Can't argue with that."

Harrison leaned forwards and there was admiration in his eyes."That's just Maggie. People see the attitude, the flirting, the fashion, the whole 'rules are more like suggestions' thing." He shrugged. "But when that canopy closes and she has her hands on the controls?"

His expression became serious. "She's one of the best pilots I've ever flown with."

He glanced back at Leland again, "She doesn't fly by the book. She flies by instinct. And somehow, against all reasonable expectations..." A smirk. "...the universe keeps rewarding her bad decisions." He chuckled.

"Although I will admit, she has gotten slightly less reckless lately." A knowing look. "Funny how that happened when Todd Hewitt entered the picture."

He shook his head. "Todd's a good man. Smart engineer. And apparently patient enough to survive falling in love with Maggie LeFebvre." A pause. "Which, honestly, might be his greatest engineering accomplishment."

Harrison laughed. "Think about it. He didn't just fix a starship system. He figured out how to keep up with Maggie." He nodded approvingly. "Now! That's talent." His expression softened slightly.

"But seriously... I'm happy for them." He looked back toward the fighter again. Something crossed his eyes before he could stop it. Protective, Brotherly even.

"Maggie deserves someone who sees all of her. Not just the pilot, not just the chaos." A small smile. "She pretends she's fearless, but she's got a bigger heart than she lets people see." He tapped the side of the cockpit. "And now she's about to have a kid."

For a moment, the usual sarcasm faded. "I think she's going to be good at it." He smiled faintly. "She already spends half her time taking care of everyone else while pretending she's not." Then Harrison's grin returned. "Though I do feel bad for the kid." He shook his head. "Imagine growing up with Maggie LeFebvre as your mother."

A dramatic pause. "That poor child is going to learn three things before they can walk." He raised a finger. "How to fly." A second. "How to argue with authority." A third. "And how to modify something they were specifically told not to touch."

He laughed. "Honestly?" He looked toward the empty Raider again. "That kid is going to be trouble." A beat. "Probably the good kind. Especially if I get to babysit."

Leland snorted, shaking his head as he finished the last of the cinnamon roll. He licked a bit of icing off his thumb and set the empty plate on the console with a soft clack.

“Babysitting. Christ, Harrison. You’re either the bravest man on this ship or the dumbest. Possibly both.”

Hawksley twisted in the seat, boots braced, and started actually looking. Proper looking. Fingers ran along the edge of the pilot’s console, then down to the relocated Dihydrate Intermix Allocator housing... He popped the access panel with a practiced twist of his wrist and leaned in, eyeing the conduit runs and the extra azimuth correction.

A low grunt of approval escaped him before he could stop it... “Hmm.”

He checked the stress points on the manifold mounts next, then the replicator’s power draw taps. Nothing red. Nothing even amber. Everything was clean, labeled, and /annoyingly/ smarter than half the factory installs he’d seen come out of Utopia Planitia.

Leland sat back, wiped his hands on his thighs, and looked over at Harrison.

“Alright. Fine Harrison...” Hawksley pointed a finger. “You’ve done good work here, Harrison. Real good. Cleaner than I expected. Quieter than I expected. And that allocator move? That’s the kind of thinking that keeps mechanics from hating your guts.”

He reached for his coffee again, took a long drink, then set the mug down with a decisive clink.

“I’ll sign off on the current mods. But” he held up a hand “only after I run a couple of my own diagnostic sweeps with Engineering sensors. Full load test on the intermix under simulated combat stress, and a thermal scan on that replicator feed. I can run them from the Engineering Labs. Two, maybe three hours of actual work. Not because I don’t trust you. Because Fleet will ask, and I’d rather have the data than another angry message from B’Ly-Kek.”

A small, crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You pass those, and I’ll even put a note in the official report that Master Chief Madrie knows what the hell he’s doing. How’s that for a compromise?”

"...And then we will get a game of poker going. Deal?" Hawksley winked wryly.

Harrison chuckled, clearly pleased. "So... I don't completely horrify Chief Engineering. I'll call that a win."

He nodded toward the Raider. "I've always believed the best modifications are the ones nobody notices—because everything just works."

At the mention of further diagnostics, he simply nodded. "Fair. If I were in your boots, I'd verify everything too. Your signature's on the line as much as mine."

His expression grew more serious. "And if those scans find something I missed... tell me. I want to learn, not argue." The grin returned. "Just don't write up Lieutenant Whiskers for boosting crew morale."

When Leland mentioned poker, Harrison extended a hand. "Deal. Diagnostics first. Poker second." A crooked smile spread across his face. "If you win, I'll buy the cinnamon rolls. If I win..." he glanced at the nose art, "...Lieutenant Whiskers stays exactly where she is."

Leland took the offered hand without hesitation, grip firm and brief, the way engineers shake on something that actually matters.

“Deal,” he said, already turning back toward the console like the conversation was finished. Then he paused, glanced over his shoulder, and added with that dry, long-suffering edge only someone who’d spent too many years arguing with captains could manage... “But if you somehow beat me at cards after I just spent three hours proving your intermix isn’t going to vaporize half the saucer, I’m confiscating those cinnamon rolls and writing Lieutenant Whiskers up for contributing to the delinquency of a Master Chief.”

Then the smallest, almost reluctant smirk...

“Don’t make me friend you, Madrie. It’s bad for my reputation!” Leland grunted cockily.

Mandrie smirked, "Okay how about.. Frenemies? In public we can bicker like old biddies and behind closed doors we indulge in coffee, cigars, and poker. deal?"

"You got it, deal." Leland extended his hand friendly. "We have to keep our images intact." He grunted.

"Deal" Harrison reached out and took Leland's hand and gave it a respectful shake. "I'll keep my eye out for that poker game."

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