Finn: Lost and Found in Shuttle Bay (Slight Backpost)

Posted on Fri May 22nd, 2026 @ 1:04pm by Petty Officer 2nd Class Quinn Sullivan & Petty Officer 2nd Class Ronan Drake & Finn Drake

Mission: Die Hard: Chimera Edition
Location: Main Shuttle Bay
Timeline: Shortly before arrival

With half the ship moving like something big was about to happen, Finn slipped into Shuttle Bay One trying very hard to look like he had a reason to be there.

The bay was louder than usual. Crews moved quickly between tool stations. A shuttle’s access panel hung open while a pair of technicians worked inside. The air smelled like coolant and warm metal.

Finn stepped around a stack of cargo crates and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Ronan!” he called. “Petty Officer Drake! Chief Pilot and Alleged Responsible Adult!”

A couple of crewmen snorted.

Finn grinned to himself and kept walking, craning his neck to spot his brother. Instead, he almost walked straight into another Petty Officer stepping out from behind a console.

He stopped short, looking up.

“Oh. Hi. You are… not him.”

Quinn wasn't used to so many people in his shuttlebay, but he was doing his best to keep things coordinated and on track. Of course, he was deferring to Engineering for much of it as they knew what they needed from the shuttles, but they were respectful enough to listen to him as he supervised. When he spoke, that is. Now he was staring down at the form of a young man trying to look like he wasn't deliberately out of place. Quinn stood there, watching the boy, waiting for him to explain himself.

Finn shifted his weight, rocking back on his sneakers, eyes studying the man without a hint of intimidation.

“Okay, so I’m guessing you either run this place,” he said thoughtfully, “or you make sure the guy who thinks he runs this place doesn’t break anything important.”

A small, mischievous smile tugged at his mouth.

"Correct," Quinn said. "Who are you?"

“I’m Finn. I’m looking for Petty Officer Second Class Ronan Drake. Tall. Slightly dramatic. Thinks flying shuttles makes him cool.”

He glanced past the Petty Officer at the open shuttle bay doors and the shimmer of the forcefield beyond.

“I’m not in trouble,” he added quickly. “Just… checking in.”

He looked back up expectantly.

“Is he around, or did he finally get promoted to something that sounds even more impressive?”

"He's working," Quinn said. "And I would prefer you not walk into an active repair zone." He stood and looked at Finn with a serious expression.

Finn blinked up at Quinn’s serious expression, then straightened like he’d just been promoted on the spot.

“Active repair zone,” he repeated, nodding with exaggerated understanding. “Yes, sir. Which means restricted movement within five meters of open plasma manifolds, exposed EPS conduits, or any panel with more than three blinking lights.”

He shifted one precise step backward.

“Also means minors should remain clear of launch lanes, tractor emitter alignments, and unsecured mag-lock testing.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels.

“I read things,” he added casually.

Quinn raised an eyebrow, moderately impressed. It wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting.

Finn's eyes flicked around the bay, taking in the shuttles with practiced familiarity. “You’re running staggered prep cycles. Smart. Keeps the launch doors from bottlenecking if Engineering starts pulling birds for parts.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. Quinn's as well.

“So you’re not just the guy who tells people not to trip. You’re actually coordinating flow.”

He leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice like they were co-conspirators.

“That’s impressive. My brother mostly just flies things fast and then says it was calculated.”

Finn tilted his head, studying Quinn with playful curiosity.

“On a scale from ‘Starfleet regulation manual’ to ‘Ronan Drake improvising,’ how tightly are you holding this place together right now?”

He folded his arms, clearly entertained.

“And just so we’re clear, I am not crossing into a restricted zone.” He glanced at an invisible line on the deck. “This is a perfectly compliant standing position.”

A beat.

“But if you wanted to point me in the general direction of my allegedly responsible brother, I would consider that a humanitarian act.”

He grinned up at Quinn, equal parts smart and trouble.

Quinn shook his head. Even Miss Jade didn't go on quite so much. "Mister Drake," Quinn said, not shouting, but somehow his voice carrying over the din, silencing those around him, some quieting out of respect and others out of shock.

Ronan’s voice came from somewhere behind the tool racks before he even appeared.

“Easy there, Quinn,” he called, stepping out from behind the open maintenance cradle where he’d clearly been working. A rag hung from one hand and a hydrospanner from the other. “If you use that tone on him too early, he’ll think he’s actually in trouble.”

He took one look at Finn standing there and sighed the long-suffering sigh of an older brother who had absolutely seen this situation coming.

“Finn.”

One word. Flat. Familiar.

"Your assistant has arrived," Quinn said. He looked at Finn and angled his head towards Ronan. "Follow me," he said.

Finn looked between Quinn and Ronan the moment the word assistant landed.

His eyes lit up.

“Assistant?” he repeated, clearly thrilled. “See? That’s an official title. I told you I should have one.”

Ronan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re eleven.”

“And?”

“And that disqualifies you from most positions that involve tools, engines, or anything that explodes.”

Finn crossed his arms. “First of all, I haven’t exploded anything.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow.

“Recently,” Finn amended.

A couple of nearby techs chuckled.

Finn shot Ronan a look. “You literally let me help you rebuild a thruster manifold last month.”

“You handed me tools.”

“I handed them correctly.”

Ronan sighed and gave Quinn a quick, apologetic glance. “See what I deal with?”

Quinn gave a nod that carried the weight of understanding as fellow oldest child.

Finn immediately pointed at Quinn. “You started it. You called me assistant.”

Ronan looked back at Quinn with a crooked grin.

"If you wish him to hand you tools, I'll authorize it from a safe side of the bay," Quinn said. "He can also fetch supplies as needed. It would free up some hands." Finn’s eyes lit up the moment Ronan agreed.

“Wait… wait, hold on,” he said quickly, looking between Quinn and his brother like something very important had just occurred to him.

“If I’m officially authorized,” he began carefully, “does that come with equipment?”

Ronan immediately sighed.

“No.”

Finn ignored him and looked straight at Quinn.

“Like… hypothetically speaking,” Finn continued, ticking points off on his fingers, “do assistants get their own combadges? Because communication is very important in high-risk operational environments.”

Ronan dragged a hand down his face.

“Finn—”

“And what about those mechanic coveralls?” Finn pressed on, eyes bright. “The gray ones with all the pockets. I feel like pockets are critical to the job.”

A couple of nearby technicians were now openly listening.

Finn leaned a little closer to Quinn like he was negotiating something serious.

“Ooh, and a tricorder. Not a fancy one. Just like a junior diagnostic one. For… scanning things.”

Ronan shook his head slowly.

“You’re giving him ideas.”

Finn pointed at Quinn again.

“He authorized it.”

Ronan looked back at the Shuttlebay Manager with a crooked, tired smile.

“You see what you’ve done, right?”

Quinn regarded Finn with a quiet, unemotional stare. If anyone hadn't known better, they'd have thought he was a statue. Or a Vulcan.

Finn folded his arms proudly.

“I’m just making sure I have the proper tools to perform my duties.”

Then he looked back up at Quinn.

“So… combadge first or coveralls?”

Quinn looked at Ronan and then at Finn. "Stay here," he said to Finn. He walked quickly towards his small office and the industrial replicator he had access too. A moment later, he came back with a small roll of gray coveralls and two oval-shaped badges.

"Wear these at all times while here," Quinn said. "Keep this comm unit attached to your coveralls while you are assisting. You will obey any and all instructions given to you." He handed both to Finn. He then handed a similar oval-shaped badge to Ronan. "This is the only communications unit his will connect to. Please do not lose it."

Finn froze for half a second as Quinn returned, eyes locked on the coveralls and badges like they were the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

“…No way,” he whispered.

Then, louder, barely containing it, “No way.”

He took the bundle carefully, like it might disappear if he moved too fast.

“These are real,” Finn said, already halfway into the coveralls, struggling a little to get his arms through. “I have pockets. This is official. This is very official.”

He clipped the comm unit on with exaggerated care, pressing it once like he’d seen others do, then immediately straightened up like he’d just joined Starfleet.

“Yes, sir,” Finn said quickly. “Obey instructions. Stay in assigned areas. Do not touch explosive things.”

A beat.

“Unless instructed.”

Ronan took the second badge, turning it over once in his hand before clipping it on. His eyes flicked to Quinn, giving him a small, appreciative nod.

“I’ll keep track of him,” Ronan said. “And the comm.”

Then he looked at Finn.

“Rule one,” he added calmly, “you don’t move unless I or Quinn tell you to. Rule two, you hand me tools when I ask. Rule three, you don’t improvise.”

Finn nodded very seriously.

“Understood.”

A beat.

“…Define improvise.”

Ronan gave him a look.

Finn immediately straightened again.

“Not improvising. Copy that.”

He looked down at himself, smoothing out the coveralls, then glanced back up at Quinn with a grin he couldn’t quite hide.

“Assistant Drake,” he said proudly. “Reporting for duty.”

Ronan shook his head, but there was a faint smirk there now.

“This is your fault,” he muttered to Quinn.

Quinn dropped his voice down past a whisper, standing near Ronan. "A young man needs guidance, but he also needs to feel he has worth. Let him do something to feel proud of, and worthy of." He gave Ronan a pat on the shoulder, and left him to his work.

Ronan watched Quinn go, the words settling in a little deeper than he expected. He didn’t say anything right away, just gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else.

“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “Got it.”

He turned back to the bay, then to Finn, who was still standing there in oversized coveralls, trying very hard to look like he belonged.

Ronan stepped in a little closer, dropping his voice just enough to keep it between them.

“Alright,” he said, tone shifting. Less teasing. More intent. “If you’re doing this, you’re doing it right.”

Finn straightened immediately.

“Yes, Chief—”

“Don’t call me that,” Ronan cut in, but there was no bite to it this time. “Just listen.”

He gestured toward the open panel on the nearby shuttle.

“Step one. You stay right here. You don’t cross that line unless I say so.” He tapped a spot on the deck with his boot. “That’s your station.”

Finn nodded, focused now.

“Step two,” Ronan continued, holding up a tool. “When I ask for something, you hand it to me clean, handle first, no fumbling. You’re part of the workflow, not in the way of it.”

Finn mimicked the motion in the air, practicing.

“Step three,” Ronan added, meeting his eyes, “you pay attention. If you see something off, you say something. Doesn’t matter who’s around.”

Finn hesitated for a second, then nodded again. “Okay.”

Ronan studied him, then gave a small, approving nod.

“Good.”

He turned back to the panel, then paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder.

“And Finn?”

“Yeah?”

“If you do this right…” Ronan said, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth, “you might actually earn those pockets.”

Finn looked down at the coveralls, then back up, grinning.

“Oh, I’m definitely earning the pockets.”

Ronan shook his head, but there was something lighter in it now as he went back to work.