09-28-2025, 06:25 PM
Luma Grounds was all windows and warm light, the kind of place where the baristas learned your order by the second visit. Riley sat at a two-top near the glass with a cup that steamed against her palms, watching the streetcar glide past and the Bay catch morning sun in small, bright bites. No jacket, no layers—just a worn, short-sleeve tee and dark jeans. The ink along her right arm climbed from wrist to bicep in clean geometry and shadow; on the left, the training scar caught the light when she lifted her cup.
Her PADD lay beside the saucer—orders to the Yeager confirmed this morning—its status light a calm, patient blink. Her black pip on a thin chain rested atop the PADD like a paperweight from another century. She hooked the chain with a finger and set the pip spinning, slow.
Okay. Breathe. Don’t make this bigger than it is. It already is.
“Riley.”
T’Varen’s voice came from her left, calm as ever. Civilian blouse and trousers, posture still textbook; she took the chair opposite without ceremony. The espresso-and-pastry warmth folded around them while, behind the counter, a kettle hissed.
“You received your orders,” T’Varen observed, gaze flicking to the PADD and back.
“This morning.” Riley aimed for casual and landed a hair short. “The Yeager.”
Riley slid across a small tray from the counter: a pot and cup of Vulcan spice tea, its steam lifting with a dry, herbal warmth. T’Varen inclined her head and poured with practiced economy, the amber surface settling perfectly level.
Riley wrapped both hands around her coffee, then cut a glance at T’Varen’s cup. “Any word on yours yet?” A beat, lighter: “Where do they think you’re headed?”
“I have been provided a preliminary placement,” T’Varen said. “Final confirmation is pending.” The slightest pause. “The probability distribution suggests minimal variance.”
Riley’s mouth tipped. “Figures. Even your unknowns come with neat margins.”
“The delay between graduation and assignment was within normal parameters,” T’Varen added. “However, you found it… suboptimal.”
“I found it like chewing on tinfoil.” Riley smiled despite herself. “Four days of limbo for six lines of text.”
“An inefficient exchange,” T’Varen allowed. “Yet a common one.”
Outside, a pair of cadets in civvies drifted past, laughing too loudly and trying not to. Riley watched them go, then let the heat steady her knuckles. The tattoo flexed with the motion, a dark ribbon against skin. Say what matters. Don’t overwork it.
“We made a good team,” she said, eyes briefly on the street.
“We continue to do so,” T’Varen replied. “Geography is not the sole determinant of cohesion.”
Riley turned back, mouth quirking. “You’re going to be fine. No—better than fine. You always are.”
“Outcomes are a function of preparation and performance,” T’Varen said, the corners of her eyes easing by a fraction. “Excellence is a process.”
“See?” Riley lifted her cup in a tiny salute. “That’s the line I’ll hear in my head when I’m about to do something reckless.”
“If my hypothetical commentary can mitigate your risk profile by three percent, it will be… satisfactory.”
Riley snorted into her coffee and swiped a thumb under one eye before anything could embarrass her. She slipped the chain over her head so the pip settled against the tee. “Keep your edges,” she said, the words arriving before she could second-guess them. “Don’t sand them down because the fleet likes neat shapes. Your instincts—” She touched her sternum. “They’re better than you give them credit for.”
T’Varen considered. “And you should remember that restraint is not the enemy of courage.”
Riley exhaled a laugh. “Trade you: I’ll borrow some restraint; you borrow some instinct.”
“A reasonable exchange.” Beat. “Return what you borrow in optimal condition.”
They let the quiet sit, easy as sunlight. The kettle whispered; cups warmed their hands. Riley thumbed the PADD awake; the assignment header glowed briefly, neat and undeniable, before she locked it again and slid it closer to the table’s edge.
Yeager. First posting. Don’t drop the pace, Wright.
“If you need me,” she said, tapping where a comm badge wasn’t, “you won’t. Because you’ll handle it. But call anyway.”
“I will,” T’Varen said—and for her, that was a promise with weight.
Riley rose and set a few credits beneath the saucer. She hesitated, then leaned in for a quick, fierce hug—clean and uncomplicated, no theatrics. As she stepped back, she unclasped the chain, curled the black pip into her palm for a beat, and slid it into her front pocket with a small, decisive pat. Not losing you.
“Thank you,” she said. “For keeping me out of my own way. For… all of it.”
“It was… mutually beneficial.”
Riley nodded. She palmed the PADD and headed for the door. The bell at Luma Grounds chimed as she stepped onto the sidewalk, San Francisco bright and busy around her.
She cut south toward the Presidio transport lines, where the Luna shuttles cycled all day—home first, final packing, then whatever came next. Through the café window, T’Varen remained a composed silhouette at the table, a fixed point as the world moved. Riley lifted a hand—more personal than formal—and joined the trickle of travelers queuing for the Lunar transfer, coffee warm in her chest and her pip safe in her pocket.
Her PADD lay beside the saucer—orders to the Yeager confirmed this morning—its status light a calm, patient blink. Her black pip on a thin chain rested atop the PADD like a paperweight from another century. She hooked the chain with a finger and set the pip spinning, slow.
Okay. Breathe. Don’t make this bigger than it is. It already is.
“Riley.”
T’Varen’s voice came from her left, calm as ever. Civilian blouse and trousers, posture still textbook; she took the chair opposite without ceremony. The espresso-and-pastry warmth folded around them while, behind the counter, a kettle hissed.
“You received your orders,” T’Varen observed, gaze flicking to the PADD and back.
“This morning.” Riley aimed for casual and landed a hair short. “The Yeager.”
Riley slid across a small tray from the counter: a pot and cup of Vulcan spice tea, its steam lifting with a dry, herbal warmth. T’Varen inclined her head and poured with practiced economy, the amber surface settling perfectly level.
Riley wrapped both hands around her coffee, then cut a glance at T’Varen’s cup. “Any word on yours yet?” A beat, lighter: “Where do they think you’re headed?”
“I have been provided a preliminary placement,” T’Varen said. “Final confirmation is pending.” The slightest pause. “The probability distribution suggests minimal variance.”
Riley’s mouth tipped. “Figures. Even your unknowns come with neat margins.”
“The delay between graduation and assignment was within normal parameters,” T’Varen added. “However, you found it… suboptimal.”
“I found it like chewing on tinfoil.” Riley smiled despite herself. “Four days of limbo for six lines of text.”
“An inefficient exchange,” T’Varen allowed. “Yet a common one.”
Outside, a pair of cadets in civvies drifted past, laughing too loudly and trying not to. Riley watched them go, then let the heat steady her knuckles. The tattoo flexed with the motion, a dark ribbon against skin. Say what matters. Don’t overwork it.
“We made a good team,” she said, eyes briefly on the street.
“We continue to do so,” T’Varen replied. “Geography is not the sole determinant of cohesion.”
Riley turned back, mouth quirking. “You’re going to be fine. No—better than fine. You always are.”
“Outcomes are a function of preparation and performance,” T’Varen said, the corners of her eyes easing by a fraction. “Excellence is a process.”
“See?” Riley lifted her cup in a tiny salute. “That’s the line I’ll hear in my head when I’m about to do something reckless.”
“If my hypothetical commentary can mitigate your risk profile by three percent, it will be… satisfactory.”
Riley snorted into her coffee and swiped a thumb under one eye before anything could embarrass her. She slipped the chain over her head so the pip settled against the tee. “Keep your edges,” she said, the words arriving before she could second-guess them. “Don’t sand them down because the fleet likes neat shapes. Your instincts—” She touched her sternum. “They’re better than you give them credit for.”
T’Varen considered. “And you should remember that restraint is not the enemy of courage.”
Riley exhaled a laugh. “Trade you: I’ll borrow some restraint; you borrow some instinct.”
“A reasonable exchange.” Beat. “Return what you borrow in optimal condition.”
They let the quiet sit, easy as sunlight. The kettle whispered; cups warmed their hands. Riley thumbed the PADD awake; the assignment header glowed briefly, neat and undeniable, before she locked it again and slid it closer to the table’s edge.
Yeager. First posting. Don’t drop the pace, Wright.
“If you need me,” she said, tapping where a comm badge wasn’t, “you won’t. Because you’ll handle it. But call anyway.”
“I will,” T’Varen said—and for her, that was a promise with weight.
Riley rose and set a few credits beneath the saucer. She hesitated, then leaned in for a quick, fierce hug—clean and uncomplicated, no theatrics. As she stepped back, she unclasped the chain, curled the black pip into her palm for a beat, and slid it into her front pocket with a small, decisive pat. Not losing you.
“Thank you,” she said. “For keeping me out of my own way. For… all of it.”
“It was… mutually beneficial.”
Riley nodded. She palmed the PADD and headed for the door. The bell at Luma Grounds chimed as she stepped onto the sidewalk, San Francisco bright and busy around her.
She cut south toward the Presidio transport lines, where the Luna shuttles cycled all day—home first, final packing, then whatever came next. Through the café window, T’Varen remained a composed silhouette at the table, a fixed point as the world moved. Riley lifted a hand—more personal than formal—and joined the trickle of travelers queuing for the Lunar transfer, coffee warm in her chest and her pip safe in her pocket.