Mythos Origions – Season 01 / Episode 01
by Alan Tripp
2410
Deck 13 — U.S.S. Mythos(-A)
Cordra Fleet Yards — Dock Slip 112 — One week til Chistening
It was one week til christen and the many of the sounds of crew returning filled the corridors of the newly freshly constructed U.S.S. Mythos … NCC-743610A …. first of the Mythos-class of command explorers … second ship to bear the name.
Walking around from deck to deck, the sounds of voices, laughter were never enough to smother the solemn quiet that lingered back around the corner.
The latter caused by memories of that left behind..
Lieutenant Barbara Jenkins walked the corridor, listening to a peel of laughter with a deadpan expression.
They’d told her where it was. leaving her the quiet to find her way.
“Deck 13,” someone had said, quietly.
“That’s where you want to go.”
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t trust her voice to hold.
The corridor felt longer than it should have. Not physically—she knew the layout already—but something about the walk stretched time. Every step seemed louder than it ought to be, even though the ship was strangely quiet here.
Or maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe she was.
She had avoided this for three days.
Three days aboard the Mythos-A, walking past the access point, pretending she had somewhere else to be. Briefings. Systems checks. Anything that let her delay the moment.
Because as long as she hadn’t seen it—
It wasn’t fully real.
The doors opened before she touched them.
They didn’t make a sound.
At first, she didn’t look at the wall.
She looked at the stars.
Old habit.
There they were—cold, steady, uncaring. The same stars she’d watched from another ship. Another deck. Another life.
The same stars he had stood beside her to watch.
Her chest tightened.
Not yet.
She stepped forward.
And then—
She saw it.
The wall.
It didn’t hit her all at once.
It pulled at her.
Black.
Endless.
Curving slightly, as if it were trying to hold something inside it.
Names.
So many names.
Her breath caught.
Not sharply.
Not dramatically.
Just… gone.
She hadn’t expected there to be so many.
She moved closer.
Slowly.
Like she was afraid of disturbing something.
Each name was the same.
Same size. Same depth. Same precision.
No rank.
No title.
Just people.
She scanned them, at first without focus. Eyes moving, not reading. Letting the weight of it settle in before she tried to find him.
Because once she did—
There would be no going back.
Her reflection caught her off guard.
It was faint, almost ghosted in the surface of the wall—but it was there. Her face, pale in the low light, layered over the names.
For a moment, she didn’t recognize herself.
Then she did.
And she hated that she was standing.
That she was breathing.
She swallowed.
“Okay…” she whispered, though no one could hear her.
She started reading.
Line by line.
Name by name.
At first, they meant nothing.
Then—
They started to.
She recognized a few.
People she had passed in corridors.
Shared shifts with.
Heard laughing once, somewhere far from the bridge.
Her pace slowed.
Because now—
Each name wasn’t just a word.
It was a life.
Her hands trembled.
She pressed one lightly against the wall, steadying herself.
The surface was cool.
Smooth.
Unforgiving.
Her reflection shifted—now closer, now clearer.
Now among them.
She kept going.
Further down.
She knew roughly where he would be.
Timeline. Deployment logs. Final engagement.
She had done the math a hundred times in her head.
Still—
When she saw it—
She almost missed it.
Not because it was hidden.
But because it wasn’t special.
It didn’t stand out.
Didn’t glow.
Didn’t carry anything to mark what he had been to her.
It was just…
His name.
Exactly like all the others.
She stopped.
Everything else fell away.
The stars.
The room.
The ship.
Gone.
Her hand moved before she thought about it.
Fingers brushing lightly over the engraving.
Tracing each letter as if confirming it was real.
It was.
Her breath broke.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just a fracture.
“He said he’d make it back…” she murmured, barely audible.
The words sounded wrong the moment they left her mouth.
Not because they weren’t true.
But because they didn’t matter anymore.
Promises didn’t live here.
Only names.
Her forehead rested lightly against the wall.
Eyes closed.
She could see him anyway.
Laughing in the corridor.
Arguing over something stupid in the lounge.
Standing beside her at a viewport—arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care about the stars.
“You always watch them,” he had said once.
“And you always pretend you don’t,” she’d replied.
A small smile.
Gone just as quickly.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the surface.
“You made it,” she whispered.
Not home.
But here.
And somehow—
That mattered.
She opened her eyes again.
Looked at the name.
Really looked at it this time.
It wasn’t just loss anymore.
It was proof.
He had been there.
He had stood when it mattered.
He had been part of something that held.
And now—
So was she.
Her reflection stared back at her again.
Clearer now.
Stronger.
Not above the names.
Among them.
She took a slow breath.
Stepped back.
Didn’t wipe her eyes.
Didn’t need to.
The room didn’t demand composure.
Only presence.
She looked once more at his name.
Then at the rest.
“So… we carry you,” she said softly.
It wasn’t a question.
It was acceptance.
She turned.
Walked toward the doors.
They opened silently.
And the sound of the ship returned.
The hum.
The life.
The forward motion.
She didn’t look back.
Because she didn’t have to.
He wasn’t behind her anymore.
He was with the ship.
And the ship—
Was still moving.
The Final Line
“She came looking for someone she lost.
She left understanding what he had become.”
————
The Hall of the Fallen — Deck 13 — U.S.S. Mythos
You don’t find the Hall of the Fallen by accident.
Not really.
There are no directional markers pointing you there. No glowing LCARS panel inviting you in. Just a quiet corridor that seems to dim as you walk it, the usual hum of the ship softening with each step—until you realize the noise isn’t fading.
It’s being held back.
The doors don’t announce themselves when they open.
They part silently.
And what waits beyond them is not what most expect.
At first, it feels like an observation deck.
The stars are there—spread wide beyond a massive viewport, endless and indifferent. The ship glides through them as it always does, steady and unbroken, a quiet reminder that life aboard Mythos never truly stops.
But your eyes don’t stay on the stars.
They can’t.
They’re drawn to the wall.
It stretches along the chamber in a slow, deliberate curve—black, polished to a mirror finish so deep it almost seems liquid. It doesn’t shine. It absorbs. Light touches it and softens, as if even illumination understands this is not a place to be harsh.
And carved into it—
Names.
At first, you read one.
Then another.
Then you stop reading entirely.
Because there are too many.
They are all the same.
Same size.
Same depth.
Same careful, exact engraving.
No rank.
No title.
No distinction.
Just names.
You move closer without meaning to.
Everyone does.
And that’s when you see it.
Not just the names.
Yourself.
Reflected in the surface, standing among them.
Not above.
Not separate.
Among.
The effect is subtle, but it settles in slowly, like gravity.
This is not a list.
It is a presence.
There is no sound here.
Not the usual ship noise, not even the distant vibration of engines. The air feels still—not empty, but held, as though the room itself is careful not to disturb what it contains.
Even footsteps seem quieter.
Even breath.
Some visitors reach out.
They don’t always realize they’re going to until their hand is already there—resting lightly against the surface, tracing a name they’ve never seen before.
Or one they have.
No one lingers without reason.
But no one leaves quickly either.
Across the room, the viewport remains—silent witness to everything beyond the ship. Stars drift past in slow arcs, cold and constant. They don’t change for the names. They don’t pause for memory.
They simply continue.
And that’s when it becomes clear.
This room isn’t about loss.
Not entirely.
It’s about continuity.
The names begin with the original Mythos—those who stood during her final run. Those who held the line at Earth. Those who crossed the distance to Qo’noS knowing what it would cost.
And they don’t end there.
They continue.
Because this ship didn’t inherit a legacy.
It became responsible for it.
There are no ceremonies held here.
No scheduled gatherings.
No official speeches.
And yet—
Before a dangerous mission, someone will pass through.
After a loss, someone will stand here a little longer than usual.
Fenrir teams enter in silence, pausing just long enough to acknowledge the wall before they step back into violence.
New crew arrive curious.
They leave… changed.
At the head of the wall, carved just deep enough to be felt more than seen, are the only words in the room:
LEST THEY BE FORGOTTEN
No one ever reads them out loud.
They don’t need to.
Because the meaning of the Hall isn’t written there.
It’s understood the moment you realize what the ship is asking of you.
That one day—
If the moment comes—
You will stand where they stood.
And someone else will stand where you are now.
Looking at your name.
In the quiet.
Among the stars.
“On Mythos, the fallen are not remembered once.
They are carried… every time the ship moves forward.”