The party's festive mood certainly left something to be desired.

Kirrahe stared uneasily at his third—fourth?—glass of moonshine, and wondered whether vomiting could possibly put any more of a pall on the evening. All things considered, the night had probably hit rock-bottom around the time Maelon had slumped off his chair and wedged himself into a corner of the room, alternating between staring morosely into his glass and drinking at a determined, mechanical, dull-eyed pace. Even Mordin was being unusually quiet, for him, launching into the beginnings of his typical ramblings, only to trail off moments later to stare at the ceiling, lips moving soundlessly. Mordin hadn't been drinking at all, Kirrahe realized belatedly, probably because he was so loaded up on painkillers.

Yeah. Drinking with scientists was always a treat.

Officially, STG operatives were strongly discouraged from, er, carousing after a successful mission, for a whole host of perfectly obvious and perfectly understandable reasons. Kirrahe knew the regulations, but first and foremost he knew people, and he knew that people needed to blow off steam, needed the sense of closure, especially after a difficult mission.

Besides, they were on a transport ship, and where there was a transport ship, there would be a still somewhere in the baffles. It had seemed like a reasonable plan at the time, dragging the jar of rotgut back to his quarters, enlisting Mordin and Maelon as drinking companions since Shenok and Hishau were still stuck in the medbay, and Jirin and Chorel, well. They weren't doing much of anything anymore except decomposing. But Kirrahe was beginning to think he might've been better off drinking alone, maudlin as it would've been. Even the corpses were better company.

He glanced up from his inspection of the flecks of dirt and dried blood along one split knuckle—when had he done that?—to see Mordin watching him, curiously intent, like he was a specimen of some particularly fascinating bacterium. "Slower to process events than most. You and Maelon both. Curious. Firebreak a successful mission, by anyone's standards."

Kirrahe looked over, met Maelon's glassy-eyed stare, and slowly set down his own drink. "We lost good people," he said, careful to keep his voice level. "The mission could've gone better."

Mordin shrugged. "Will always lose people in a risky mission. STG attracts the best. Therefore, stands to reason that all risky missions involve loss of good people." He paused, then added, "Doesn't reflect badly on your leadership."

"Right," Kirrahe said, and the word came out as more of a drawl than he'd expected, punctuated by a delicate belch. Yeah, that had definitely been four or five drinks. At least. "How kind of you to remind me. I never thought otherwise, you know."

"No. Don't suppose you did," said Mordin. Kirrahe rolled his eyes, and very nearly threw up then and there. "Should hydrate," Mordin added. "Effects of inexpertly distilled alcohol… problematic."

"Tell me about it," Kirrahe said, and flung up a hand to ward off the detailed explanation that would've inevitably followed. "It's probably time to call it a night, anyway. Maelon looks like he's about ready to pass out."

Mordin raised a hand to scratch absently at the bandages that did a poor job of concealing the devastating damage to the side of his head and face. "Will talk with Maelon later. He'll understand. Good kid."

The kid in question made no move to acknowledge this remark, staring across the room with the same dull glaze. Kirrahe looked away. "If you say so."

"Still," Mordin said, "don't understand why you're having hard time accepting this mission. Successful results, should bolster your career. Didn't think you were particularly close with Jirin or Chorel."

An angry retort boiled up in Kirrahe's throat, but he swallowed it down with the rest of the bile. "No, I don't suppose I was."

"Ah," said Mordin, in a distinctly smug tone. "Then mission parameters caused unease. Understandable. Odd that moral compunction should arise at this late stage, though."

Kirrahe snorted, and for a dizzying moment wasn't sure whether he was about to laugh or cry. His shoulders shuddered, but like the nausea, the mood passed off again in waves. He could practically hear the mental walls slamming into place, neatly compartmentalizing emotion and doubt, all according to training. His voice barely quavered. "Hadn't you heard? The mission parameters changed."

Mordin was quiet a long moment, staring into space with an expression that rivalled Maelon's for pure blankness. Then he glanced back at Kirrahe, with a faint smile. "Drink water. Get some rest. Should be… easier, from now, day by day. Machinery in motion. No more pushing needed."

"Just along for the ride, huh?" A comforting thought.

Mordin straightened, dragging Maelon to his feet and supporting him with an arm slung around his shoulders. "Right," he said, breathing a little harder with the effort, and for a sharp-edged second Kirrahe remembered him slumped on the ground, bleeding, before that image too was slammed back behind a mental wall. Something must have shown on his face, because Mordin's expression actually softened again. The smile looked profoundly unnatural on him. "Unlikely we'll work together again."

"I've already been reassigned," Kirrahe said.

"Good. Best cure for all this. More work." Mordin paused at the doorway. "We held."

Kirrahe raised his glass. "We held," he said, and then he was alone in a dark room, not nearly drunk enough to keep the unquiet ghosts at bay.