The guitar riff had been stuck in Buddy’s head all morning.

It started during morning drills—just a few syncopated notes he’d tapped out absentmindedly on the arm of a chair in the security briefing room. Then it followed him through weapons inspection. Now, as he reviewed departmental duty rotations on a PADD, it had evolved into a full-on earworm with lyrics threatening to write themselves if he didn’t get them out soon.

He spun the PADD on his fingers and let it clatter onto the desk with a soft thunk.

There had to be a way to let it out. Not just the music—but the version of himself that felt most alive when he was on stage, crowd roaring, lights low, feedback humming through the soles of his boots. The real Buddy. Not just the rank and file security officer, post-trauma survivor, “assimilated but doing okay” Starfleet darling.

No. He needed to make something. Loud. Honest. Unfiltered.

He needed the band back—even if it was a new lineup, a new stage, a new starship.

Buddy and the Breen… live on the Ark Angel.

The title popped into his head like a phaser blast. Bold. Stupid. Perfect.

He was grinning before he realized it.

The cargo bays were spacious. He’d seen the sound system in the rec lounge. Maybe they could do a show—a holorecording, even. Get the crew involved. Musicians, poets, dancers, that weird Bolian ensign who played jazz on a modified theremin. Maybe even the Princess and Pic could come if the counselor was cool with it.

But first… permission.

Buddy straightened his jacket, smoothed a hand through his hair, and left his quarters before he could talk himself out of it. Within minutes, he was standing outside the executive officer’s office, heart hammering a little harder than he liked to admit.

He took a breath, summoned his most charming grin, and tapped the chime.

-Ens. Cullum
Security Officer