Coy Sessions - The Lover - V - PT1

Posted on Sat Nov 14th, 2026 @ 8:11pm by Commander Rosa Coy & Commander Jenna Ramthorne & Remal Kajun

3,115 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Character Development
Location: Holodeck 2
Timeline: Pre-Zhian'tara Ceremony

With a little more than a week remaining before the Sunfire was scheduled to complete her repairs, talk throughout the station had begun to turn toward the legendary ship's imminent departure. Every completed inspection and restored system seemed to bring another rumor that she would soon be returning to the stars. Rosa shared some of that anticipation.

She missed the familiar comfort of the helm, the hum of a vessel beneath her hands, and the freedom that came with navigating the unknown. Yet the remaining days in dock had provided an opportunity she was beginning to appreciate. Tonight, she was particularly looking forward to meeting Hendrixi, or at least the closest approximation of him that modern technology could provide. She also welcomed another conversation with Remal, whose calm and unwavering presence had become something of a refuge amid the storms she continued to navigate within herself.

Holodeck 2 greeted them with the warm glow of lamplight and the faint, familiar scent of aged wood. A modest apartment materialized around them, its furnishings comfortable but mismatched, with books and loose papers occupying nearly every available surface. Sheets of handwritten music lay scattered across a narrow desk, some marked with corrections, others abandoned halfway through a composition.

A guitar rested against the arm of a well-worn chair, its polished surface bearing the subtle scars of countless performances. Another, considerably older instrument hung on the wall beside a collection of photographs and performance memorabilia. Everything suggested a man who had surrounded himself with things he loved and rarely found the inclination to put any of them away.

Remal stood near the window, taking in the surroundings with the quiet appreciation of someone visiting an old friend's home. "Tonight we'll be spending some time with Hendrixi," he explained, gesturing toward the room. "This particular reconstruction draws from archived performances, personal recordings, and a rather extensive collection of journals. As with the other programs, there are limitations to what we can recreate."

"Particularly when the subject insists on writing about everything except the things that matter," a voice added from the armchair.

Rosa turned to face the person speaking.

Hendrixi sat with one ankle resting across his opposite knee, a pencil tucked behind his ear and an unfinished composition spread across his lap. His fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against the armrest, occasionally pausing as though he were listening to something neither Rosa nor Remal could hear. He looked up with an easy smile that seemed practiced enough to charm an audience yet genuine enough to make the attention feel personal.

"Of course," Hendrixi continued, offering Remal an exaggerated nod of respect, "I suspect whoever collected my private writings had very little respect for the word private."

Remal's lips curved into a restrained smile. "For someone who spent most of his life performing in public, you were remarkably concerned about maintaining your privacy."

"Professional courtesy, Counselor." Hendrixi lifted a finger in gentle correction. "A performer must always leave the audience wondering what happens after the curtain falls. Leave them wanting more, right?"

Rosa found herself smiling as she approached the guitar. Something about its shape and the pattern worn into the wood stirred a recognition deeper than simple familiarity. She reached for the instrument, and as her fingers closed around its neck, a strange certainty settled into her hands. The weight felt right against her hip. Even the tension of the strings seemed familiar, calling forth movements her conscious mind had never learned. She adjusted her fingers along the frets and drew a soft chord from the instrument.

Hendrixi winced theatrically. "Oh, that's dreadful," he declared, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Perfectly accurate, of course, which somehow makes it worse."

Rosa looked up, one eyebrow rising. "There's nothing wrong with the chord."

"Precisely my complaint." Hendrixi gestured toward her hands. "You've approached it like a problem waiting to be solved. Every finger exactly where it belongs, every note obediently following the one before it." He shook his head with mock disappointment. "You must be absolutely unbearable during rehearsals."

"I'm a flight instructor," Rosa corrected him, adjusting her grip. "Precision is rather important in my profession."

"Ah, so you teach people how to fall out of the sky with extraordinary accuracy."

"How to avoid falling out of the sky," Rosa corrected, amusement creeping into her voice.

"An important distinction, I'm sure." Hendrixi waved a hand dismissively before pointing toward the guitar. "Try it again. This time, stop worrying about where the notes are supposed to go. Give them somewhere worthy of the journey."

Rosa considered the challenge for a moment before allowing her fingers to wander. The first few notes followed the same familiar progression, but as she relaxed her grip, the melody took an unexpected turn. A second chord followed, then a third, the sequence unfolding with an ease that surprised her. She recognized the music without knowing its name. More unsettling still was the feeling that she knew exactly where it wanted to go.

Hendrixi's expression softened into genuine appreciation. His tapping fingers found the rhythm, accompanying her quietly against the armrest. "There she is," he murmured, the words carrying more warmth than triumph. "I wondered how long it would take you to stop asking for permission."

Rosa allowed the final note to linger before looking at him. "You always approached life this way?"

"With reckless enthusiasm and questionable judgment?" Hendrixi laughed. "Far more often than I care to admit."

"You moved from one place to another, rarely settling anywhere long enough to establish a life. Your music came first, and everything else followed whenever it could keep up."

"An excellent description," Hendrixi agreed, retrieving the pencil from behind his ear and inspecting its worn tip. "Although I would have preferred something involving artistic freedom and the relentless pursuit of inspiration."

Rosa leaned against the desk, keeping the guitar comfortably balanced against her hip. "You sound rather proud of yourself."

"I was." He glanced around the apartment, his smile lingering as he studied the scattered evidence of his former life. "I loved the stage. The feeling of anticipation before the first note sounded, the moment an audience stopped talking because something you'd played had finally reached them. There's a certain magic in knowing you can make an entire room feel something together." His fingers resumed their quiet rhythm. "Then the lights went down, everyone went home, and I would find myself wondering where I was supposed to go next."

Rosa watched him with growing interest. "You had trouble being still."

"I had trouble understanding why I should." Hendrixi shrugged, though the movement carried a trace of regret. "Every new place offered another possibility. Another audience. Another beautiful distraction. I became exceptionally good at arriving somewhere and then finding reasons to leave before anyone had the chance to ask me to stay."

"And joining changed that?"

Hendrixi considered the question, turning the pencil between his fingers before setting it carefully upon the desk. "Joining gave me something I hadn't realized I was missing," he answered, his tone growing thoughtful. "Call it continuity. Until then, I'd lived my life like a collection of unfinished songs, always chasing the next melody before I'd properly listened to the one I was playing." He gave a quiet chuckle. "Coy had already lived through enough unfinished business to recognize the pattern."

Rosa glanced down at the guitar, gently brushing her thumb across its strings.

"So the joining settled you?"

"It helped me understand myself." Hendrixi smiled. "The music was still there. So was the restlessness, the ambition, the occasional and spectacular lapse in judgment. I simply became better at recognizing which impulses deserved my attention and which ones would leave me regretting the morning."

Rosa considered the ease with which Hendrixi spoke of his former weaknesses, which surprised her, particularly his willingness to laugh at them. He seemed comfortable acknowledging the man he had once been, even when that man had made mistakes. Her gaze wandered toward a small photograph tucked into the frame of a mirror beside the desk. A woman smiled back from the image, her expression relaxed and unguarded. There was something unmistakably affectionate about the way Hendrixi stood beside her, one arm draped loosely around her shoulders.

"And her?" Rosa asked, nodding toward the photograph.

His expression softened and Hendrixi's restless fingers fell still. He followed her gaze, and the smile that crossed his face carried a warmth quite different from the playful confidence he had displayed moments earlier. "Ah," he said softly, settling back into the chair. "Now there's a song worth remembering."

Hendrixi rose from the armchair and approached the photograph, brushing a finger across its surface with an affection that seemed to surprise even him. "I met her at a little riverside pub," he began, his expression brightening as the memory returned. "The sort of place where the drinks were cheap, the furniture was older than the patrons, and the owner considered paying musicians an entirely arbitrary expense." He chuckled, glancing toward Rosa. "The stage leaned slightly to the left. Every musician who performed there eventually learned to compensate for it, usually without realizing they were doing so."

"And she noticed?" Rosa asked, recognizing something in the way he lingered over the detail.

"She noticed everything." Hendrixi's smile softened. "Most people came to hear a song they already knew. She came to hear the music."

The apartment began to change around them, its warm lamplight giving way to amber lanterns suspended above crowded wooden tables. Laughter and conversation rose beneath the aroma of roasted grain and old timber, while a faint breeze drifted through open windows overlooking the river. Rosa found herself standing beside Hendrixi on the narrow wooden platform, the guitar resting comfortably against her hip. The instrument seemed to belong there, as though the years separating her from the memory had simply fallen away.

Hendrixi gestured toward the room with an expression of theatrical pride. "Behold, one of the finest establishments to ever tolerate my presence."

Rosa glanced toward the uneven platform beneath her boots. "I'm beginning to understand why you rarely stayed anywhere long."

"Unappreciated genius," Hendrixi replied with a wounded sigh. "A tragedy repeated across several continents."

His younger likeness stood at the center of the stage, performing with the confidence of a man entirely comfortable beneath an audience's attention. Rosa recognized the melody as his fingers moved across the strings. It was a lively composition, rich with unexpected changes in rhythm, and the crowd responded enthusiastically whenever he gave them something familiar to applaud.

Then she noticed the woman near the back of the room. She occupied a small table near one of the open windows, a half-finished drink resting between her hands. While the other patrons chatted and laughed through the performance, her attention rarely left the stage. She followed the music with an intensity that Rosa recognized immediately, her expression changing whenever the melody shifted or Hendrixi allowed a note to linger longer than expected.

"She's hardly applauding," Rosa observed.

"Terrible audience," Hendrixi agreed, although his smile suggested precisely the opposite. "I spent half the evening trying to impress her. By the final song, I was beginning to suspect she might be deaf."

Rosa watched as the younger Hendrixi glanced toward the woman between verses. His performance grew increasingly elaborate, each flourish delivered with the confidence of someone accustomed to winning an audience's affection.

"She wasn't impressed?" Rosa asked.

"Oh, I suspect she was." Hendrixi folded his arms, studying his younger self with amusement. "Just not by the things I wanted her to notice."

The performance ended beneath a generous round of applause. The crowd gradually dispersed, leaving behind empty glasses, abandoned conversations, and the lingering warmth of a room that had shared something enjoyable. The younger Hendrixi remained near the stage, packing away his instrument while exchanging pleasantries with the last few patrons.

The woman approached carrying two glasses, offering one without ceremony. "The second verse was honest," she told him, her voice soft but assured.

The younger Hendrixi accepted the drink, raising an eyebrow. "And what was wrong with the first?"

She smiled over the rim of her glass. "It was written for everyone else."

Beside Rosa, Hendrixi laughed quietly at the recollection.

"That must have wounded your pride," Rosa observed, watching the younger man's expression shift from amusement to genuine curiosity.

"Nearly killed me," Hendrixi admitted. "I'd spent years convincing myself that applause meant people understood what I was trying to say. Then this woman walked into my life and informed me, quite casually, that she'd noticed when I was pretending."

The younger Hendrixi leaned against the stage, suddenly far more interested in the conversation than the compliments he had received throughout the evening.

"And which verse did you prefer?" he asked her.

"The second," the woman replied, setting her glass aside. "You sounded like you were singing to someone in particular."

"I was."

"Someone here?"

"Apparently."

She considered him for a moment before laughing, and the sound carried an easy warmth that caught him completely off guard.

Rosa smiled as the scene began to dissolve. "You were certainly persistent."

"Persistence is an admirable quality in a musician," Hendrixi replied, turning toward her. "In a romantic pursuit, I eventually discovered it requires a little more discretion."

The pub gave way to the modest apartment they had occupied moments earlier, although morning sunlight now filtered through thin curtains. The woman sat cross-legged on the floor wearing an oversized shirt, awkwardly pressing three uncertain chords from Hendrixi's guitar. Each attempt produced a slightly different arrangement of notes, none of which seemed concerned with the intended melody.

The younger Hendrixi applauded with extravagant enthusiasm. "Magnificent!" he declared. "An entirely new interpretation. The composer would be devastated."

"Then perhaps the composer should have written something easier," the woman replied, laughing as she attempted the fourth chord and failed spectacularly. She tossed the instrument toward him, and he caught it against his chest before settling onto the floor beside her. He played the progression slowly, allowing her to follow the movement of his fingers.

Rosa watched the exchange with quiet fascination. There was an ease between them that extended beyond their laughter. They interrupted one another, exchanged affectionate insults, and seemed perfectly comfortable allowing moments of silence to settle between conversations.

Another recollection followed. Rain poured across a narrow street while they struggled beneath an umbrella entirely inadequate for the weather. The younger Hendrixi attempted to shield his guitar beneath his coat, leaving the woman laughing helplessly as water streamed down her face.

"You care more about that instrument than you do about me!" she protested.

"The instrument has never complained about my singing," he replied, earning a playful shove that nearly sent them both into the gutter.

The scene shifted again, carrying the aroma of an unattended dinner burning in a small kitchen. The woman stood barefoot beside Hendrixi, her arms resting loosely around his shoulders as they moved together across the worn wooden floor. Whatever music accompanied their dancing seemed to exist entirely between them.

Rosa felt the warmth of those memories settling into her own awareness, familiar emotions arriving with a depth that startled her. She could recall the laughter, the comfortable silences, and the extraordinary satisfaction of sharing ordinary moments with someone who understood her. For a little while, she allowed herself to enjoy them. Then the atmosphere changed.

The apartment remained, although evening had replaced the afternoon sunlight. A travel bag rested beside the door, and the woman stood near the window with her arms folded across her chest. The younger Hendrixi occupied the opposite side of the room, visibly struggling to contain his frustration.

"You could have told me before accepting another engagement," she said, her voice carrying the restrained disappointment of someone who had already spent considerable time deciding how to approach the conversation.

"It was an opportunity," the younger Hendrixi replied, spreading his hands. "A good one. The sort of invitation I can't just ignore."

"I understand that." She turned toward him. "What I don't understand is why you made plans with me knowing you'd leave the moment something more interesting came along."

Hendrixi glanced away from Rosa, his expression losing some of its customary amusement. "I wasn't particularly good at that part," he admitted quietly.

The younger man approached the woman, attempting a charming smile that had probably rescued him from countless uncomfortable conversations. "Come with me," he offered. "We could make an adventure of it."

She regarded him for a long moment. "And when the next invitation arrives?" she asked. "Do we change our plans again? How many places am I supposed to follow you before you decide where you actually want to be?"

The question seemed to unsettle him more than her earlier disappointment. "I never asked you to give up everything," he protested.

"You keep asking me to rearrange my life around yours." Her expression softened, although her voice remained firm. "I love listening to you play, Hendrixi. I love how excited you get when you discover a new melody, and I love watching you lose yourself in something that matters to you. But I have things that matter to me, too."

The younger Hendrixi opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever he had intended to say. "I know," he answered eventually.

"Then sometimes I need you to remember them, too."

The memory lingered upon his expression, allowing Rosa to see the uncomfortable realization taking shape behind his eyes. She recognized the temptation to defend himself, the familiar instinct to explain away the hurt he had caused. This time, however, he remained quiet long enough to hear what the woman had been trying to tell him.

Rosa turned toward the Hendrixi beside her. "You almost lost her."

"More than once," he admitted, studying the younger version of himself. "I could make her laugh when she wanted to be angry. I could find exactly the right words when she was disappointed, and I knew how to make an apology sound like a love song." His smile returned, tempered by regret. "Took me far too long to understand that a beautiful apology means very little if you keep giving someone reasons to need one."

"And joining helped you recognize that?"

"It helped me listen to myself a little less," Hendrixi replied. "There were other lives in here, other ways of understanding what mattered. I began to recognize how often I'd mistaken being wanted for being loved." He glanced toward the woman, who had resumed speaking with his younger self. "She wanted to share her life with me, Rosa. I had to learn how to make room for it."

TBC

 

RSS Feed