Personal Log, Leo Da’Cinci — Supplemental
Posted on Sat Aug 23rd, 2025 @ 10:43am by Lieutenant Leo Da'Cinci
Edited on Sat Aug 23rd, 2025 @ 10:47am
1,024 words; about a 5 minute read
Personal Log, Leo Da’Cinci — Supplemental
(Confidential. Not for official record. If ye’re readin’ this, put it back where ye found it, or I’ll throttle ye with me own spanner.)
I woke up this mornin’ to the bloody computer chirpin’ in me ear again. 0600 hours sharp, no mercy, no consideration. “Good mornin’, Lieutenant Da’Cinci,” it says, as though I’m about to spring out of bed with a smile. Ha! I roll over, mumble a curse or three, and slap the console ‘til it shuts up. Truth be told, if the ship herself didn’t need me, I’d never leave the mattress. But she does, the fine lady. She’s always needin’ me.
Dragged myself upright, bones creakin’ like an old starship hull in a solar flare. I rubbed the sleep grit from me eyes, tripped over the boots I forgot to stow, and growled at meself for bein’ a fool. That’s how the day starts, every damned day.
Quick wash, quick shave—don’t want the Chief ridin’ me arse about lookin’ like a feral Klingon—then I pulled on the uniform. Smelled faintly of plasma and sweat, even after a clean. Aye, but that’s the smell of an honest engineer, it is.
Did I bother with breakfast? Of course not. Orange juice and toast is for the likes of Ramthorne. Me, I head straight to the engine room. The warp core doesn’t wait. She thrums, she hums, she breathes—and without me there to listen, she’d grow lonely.
0630 hours. I step into Main Engineering and it hits me, like always. That glow. Blue-white power pulsin’ steady, like the heartbeat of a goddess. I mutter a “mornin’, lass” under me breath, palm the rail as I pass. A man doesn’t need warmth from kin when he’s got this sort of company.
Course, the morning didn’t stay peaceful. Never does. By 0700, one of the coolant relays in Jefferies tube 3B went and fritzed itself half-dead. Some junior had routed a bypass, sloppy as spilled ale. Nearly blew half the conduit open.
So I crawl in, wrench in one hand, mutterin’ the whole way. The bolts are stickin’, the seals are misaligned, and by the Prophets, I swear the bloody tool kit’s lighter every day. Someone’s pilferin’ from me stash—I can feel it.
And wouldn’t ye know, just as I’m sweatin’ over the relay, who pops her wee nose into the hatch but Lieutenant Commander Bonnie Durnell. Bright-eyed, hair stickin’ every which way, arms full of padds like she’s marryin’ ‘em.
“Leo,” she says, voice soft as if the pipes might hear, “do you need a hand with that?”
Now, I like Bonnie well enough—don’t get me wrong. She’s sharp, quicker with theory than most, and has a heart like her warp equations: always tryin’ to balance the impossible. But when I’m elbow-deep in coolant lines, the last thing I want is someone hoverin’.
So I snorted, wiped a smear of grease on me sleeve, and growled back: “Aye, I need a hand, lass. Whose d’ye think I’m holdin’ here? Go fiddle with yer computers ‘til I call for ye.”
She blushed, muttered an apology, near tripped on her own boots retreatin’. Felt a pang of guilt, aye, but I buried it under me grumblin’. Can’t have folk thinkin’ I’m soft. Next thing ye know, they’re touchin’ yer tools without askin’.
By midday, the relay’s hummin’ proper again. I stand, stretch me back, and let out a laugh that echoes down the tube. Not a happy laugh, mind—more of a “ye bloody survived again” laugh. The ship purrs her thanks. That’s all I need.
Shift rolls on. The Chief pokes his head in, barkin’ orders about efficiency reports. I grunt, nod, scribble down some numbers he’ll never understand, then get back to the real work. He leaves satisfied, none the wiser.
End of shift bell chimes at 1600. Everyone else files out like dutiful sheep, but not Leo Da’Cinci. Oh no. I linger. There’s always somethin’ singin’ off-key in the warp matrix, always a vibration that could be sweeter, always a tweak to be made.
So I keep at it. Hours pass. A couple of ensigns give me the side-eye, whisperin’ as they leave. “Does he ever stop?” they ask. No, lads, I don’t. And ye shouldn’t either, if ye want to call yerself an engineer.
Evenin’ comes, and I finally drag meself back to quarters. Not because I’m finished—never finished—but because me stomach’s roarin’ like a targ. Replicator coughs up somethin’ passin’ for stew. I eat half, curse the rest, and wash it down with a nip from the flask. Just one, mind ye. The rest is for proper company—Ramthorne, Coy, Bonnie, that Remal feller. Folk who understand.
After that, I tinker. Always tinkerin’. Bits of scrap on the desk, a half-built diagnostic tool in me hands. I lose hours here, whistlin’ some old Gaelic tune, hummin’ the pipes I never play in public. The silence of quarters breaks only with the click of metal, the mutter of ideas.
Sometimes, when the mind grows tired, I pull out me guilty pleasure—the Ships of the Line collection. Glossy spreads of the finest beauties Starfleet ever birthed. Constitution, Excelsior, Galaxy… I grin like a fool, flippin’ the pages. Some men dream of women. Me? I dream of warp fields and nacelles.
And so the day ends as it always does. Head droops over the desk, tools scatterin’ as sleep drags me under. I’ll wake with a crick in me neck, curses on me lips, and a smile in me heart when I hear the lady’s hum again.
That’s a day in the life of Leo Da’Cinci. Nothing glamorous, nothing heroic. Just me and the engines, fightin’ the quiet battles that no one writes about. And I wouldn’t trade it for all the pips in Starfleet.
End log.
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