No Need For A Res-Q
Posted on Sat Jan 10th, 2026 @ 4:45pm by Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
812 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission:
A Fondness For
Location: Various
Timeline: Present
:ON:
The device behind them emits one final, contented thrum, like a cat settling on a warm console.
DON pauses mid-step.
DON: Sir… tell me you felt that.
DICK: If you’re about to say “sense of narrative closure,” then yes.
JULIUS: Chronal harmonics have collapsed into baseline reality.
ANDREWS: Translation?
JULIUS: We are no longer inside a metaphor.
DON: Thank God. I hate metaphors. They always end in explosions or lessons.
They round the corner and nearly collide with two men in identical gray suits, identical expressions, and identical disapproval radiating like a subspace field.
DULMUR: Well, well, well. Captain Dick Sprague.
LUCSLY: You are to accompany us immediately.
DON squints.
DON: Oh no.
DICK: Gentlemen. Temporal Investigations. You’re late.
LUCSLY: We arrived the moment causality stopped screaming.
DULMUR: Which, frankly, is still earlier than we prefer.
DON (to Andrews): These are the guys who interrogated Sisko over that Bell Riots thing.
ANDREWS: The ones who didn’t blink for forty minutes?
DON: That’s them. I timed it.
DICK folds his hands politely.
DICK: Before you start—yes, I’m aware this looks like temporal interference.
DULMUR: Captain, you broadcast a live chronal anomaly into a committee session.
LUCSLY: While standing inside it.
DULMUR: With witnesses.
LUCSLY: And weather.
DON: In our defense, the weather started it.
Sheeraashaa steps forward, serene as ever.
SHEERAASHAA: Time was injured. We facilitated dialogue.
LUCSLY stares at her for a long moment.
LUCSLY: …I hate it when Orions are right.
DULMUR activates a padd.
DULMUR: Captain Sprague, you are aware of the Department of Temporal Investigations’ standing rule—
DICK (in unison with them): “If you think you might be involved in a temporal paradox, you are.”
The agents blink.
LUCSLY: …He knows the rule.
DON: He’s got it cross-stitched on a throw pillow.
DULMUR sighs—the sound of a man who questioned Janeway after the ‘Endgame’ incident and survived.
DULMUR: We’re placing a provisional hold on sanctions.
LUCSLY: Pending review.
DON: That’s… good?
LUCSLY: No.
DULMUR: But it’s less bad.
The device behind them gives a tiny, smug ping.
LUCSLY turns slowly.
LUCSLY: Did it just—
JULIUS: Acknowledged bureaucratic inevitability.
DON: Honestly, that’s more self-awareness than most admirals.
The agents exchange a look.
DULMUR: We’ll be watching this situation closely.
DICK: You always do.
LUCSLY: Especially you.
They step aside, allowing the group to pass.
As they walk away, Don leans in.
DON: Sir… we just survived Temporal Investigations.
DICK: I once saw a Ferengi beat the house on Dabo. Miracles happen, Don.
⸻
{Later. Much later. USS Albion, bridge}
Everything is calm. Suspiciously calm.
ANDREWS: All systems green.
DON: Helm steady. No anomalies. No distortions. No singing clouds.
FLORIAN: Chronal sensors reading… boredom.
DICK relaxes into the chair.
DICK: Excellent. Set course for home.
The viewscreen flickers.
A familiar white void replaces the stars.
DON: …Sir?
A man appears, lounging in midair like reality is a suggestion.
Q: Honestly, Dick, I leave you alone for one existential crisis and you start group therapy with spacetime.
DICK closes his eyes.
DICK: Q….
Q: Don’t sound so thrilled. I came to congratulate you.
DON: …This is a dream, right?
Q: Oh no, Commander Key. If this were a dream, you’d be naked, late for duty, and Wesley Crusher would be your supervisor. Salad would also be on the menu seven days a week, 52 weeks a year.
DON shudders.
DON: That’s not funny.
Q: It’s extremely funny.
DICK: What do you want?
Q drifts closer, inspecting the captain.
Q: You convinced the universe not to sue Starfleet. That’s… new.
JULIUS: Statistically improbable.
Q: Exactly! You didn’t punch anyone, you didn’t reset the timeline, and no one turned into a salamander.
DON: Low bar, but appreciated.
Q smirks.
Q: The Continuum had a betting pool. You cost me fifty galaxies and I lost my pet Lanthanite. I had him for over 700 years.
DICK: Cry me a river. Preferably one that doesn’t exist in five timelines at once.
Q snaps his fingers. The viewscreen returns to stars.
Q: Fine. Enjoy your quiet ending.
He pauses.
Q: Oh—and Dick?
DICK: Yes?
Q: Boothby would’ve approved.
Then with the wave of his hand and a bright flash… he was gone.
DON: …Did Q just give you a compliment?
DICK: I’m putting in for hazard pay.
⸻
{Hours later}
The Albion cruises peacefully.
DON swivels his chair.
DON: Sir?
DICK: Yes, Don?
DON: Do you think history’s actually going to change?
DICK considers.
DICK: No. But it might hesitate next time.
DON smiles.
DON: That’s something.
DICK: It’s always something. That’s the job.
The stars stretch into warp.
Somewhere, causality clears its throat, opens a file, and begins to write.
:OFF:
Commander Donald “Don” Key
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Albion
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