“Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”
-Gandalf (J.R.R. Tolkien “The Hobbit”)

There was warmth at first.  The kind that feels almost maternal, like you’re swaddled in some long-forgotten comfort.  The aroma of burning wood tickled his senses and reminded him of his cabin home in the Sierras back on Earth.  But then the texture beneath his cheek told the truth; rough, grainy, organic.  Not a bed.  Dirt.  His eyes shot open and he blinked once.  The stars overhead were not greeting him through a viewport.  There were no bulkheads.  Just open sky and the sinister whisper of wind through leaves.  Michael sat up slowly, and the truth crept in like a damage report – he was outdoors, unarmed, and certainly in trouble.  He wiped the earthy crust from his face as he cast off the sleeping bag that had encased him.  There had also been a pillow, now sat all crooked and forgotten to the side.  Apparently he’d rejected it in his sleep.

There was a movement behind him.  A shift, a breath, a scrape of godless intent.  It ran up his spine like ice water laced with about 50 ccs of Netinaline.  Michael turned in time to see a mess of blue hair shaking loose pine needles.  For a brief, strange moment he found Thalissa staring at him as she wiped the sleep from her eyes like she was glad – actually glad – that he was there.  And the implication of that instinctual, hungry reaction was somehow more unsettling than the goddamn forest.  Then came her own shift of realization.  That easy smile faltered, her nostrils flared.  She sat bolt upright with the startled fury of a woman who just realized the universe once again conspired to make shit complicated.

They both eyed one another with suspicion as they took in their surroundings.  It didn’t help that that kiss still hung over the both of them like some felony.  For a few awkward seconds, they both just stared – like two suspects who’d woke up at a crime scene with blood on their hands and no memory of what the hell went down.  His brain was screaming for answers.  So was hers.  But neither of them wanted to say it first; What the hell did you do to me?!  The whole scene was wrong, but that fire…  Bloody hell.  All the while a campfire hissed and popped in front of them like a promise, radiating a peace that didn’t feel like it belonged.  A lullaby played on a battlefield.  It wasn’t the fire’s warmth that bothered him – no, it was that feral urge to actually believe this lie.  That maybe, somehow they been dropped into this paradise on accident.  That this fire, this forest, this woman beside him…  All part of some galactic apology.

Thalissa’s eyes went wide, like someone had flipped a switch in her brain.  “Thakrass!  That blue-skinned son of a bitch!”  Ignoring for a second that the pot was calling the kettle black, the name hit the air like a phaser blast – sudden, accusatory, and very, very personal.

And just like that, the whole twisted picture started coming into focus.  “Trevenan and Thakrass.” Michael muttered, staring at the fire now as though it were also somehow just as complicit.  “That retreat crap they were pitching.  Well played.  Real fucking cute.”  The bastards had done it – dropped them both into some kind of wilderness therapy without warning.

“Eso es, cabrones!  Welcome to Minos Korva Prime!” a sudden voice barked like a drill sergeant from hell.  A boot crunched a twig – then he was there, this absolute bear of a man emerging from the trees.  Long black hair tied back, face cratered like a moonscape with an attitude to match.  He hurled a pack at each of them without breaking stride.  Michael’s pack hit him in the chest like a brick wrapped in canvas.  “You can’t be runnin’ around the place in your goddamn skivvies, so put some clothes on and let’s go!”

Michael’s hands plunged into the pack, demanding answers and perhaps some pants.  There was a set of crumpled hiking fatigues and a tunic, and a standard issue tricorder wedged between a set of socks.  A pair of boots were tied together to sway off the side of the bag, swinging back and forth like some noose.

He looked up momentarily and there she was – his XO – stretching out of her sleeping bag like a cat.  Nothing on but black underthings and oblivious grace.  His breath stuttered just a hair.  The newcomer saw it.  Didn’t say a word, just glared like he was storing ammunition for later.  Michael yanked the tunic over his head like a man dodging phaser fire.  “Alright, guy.” He snapped.  “Who the hell are you?”

The man laughed.  A deep, throaty noise that sounded like a landslide.  “Shit, forgot my manners.  Name’s Ramón Gutierrez.  Lieutenant Commander.  I’m the Fresno’s new fuckin’ shrink.  Ship hasn’t seen me yet, but the brass thought it’d be cute to drop me in your lap out here like some survivalist pinata.  Felt the presence of a counselor would help, and all that.”  He lit some torch like a caveman and pointed it at a mountain off in the distance.  At its peak was a bonfire so bright, it looked like the top of the world was on fire.  “Best hustle up and get dressed, sirs.  Top of that mountain is crawling with the other CO’s and a bunch of damn kumbaya.  Don’t wanna be late.”