09-30-2025, 03:47 AM
== Wright Apartment on Luna ==
Luna daylight pooled along the floor as Riley eased her bedroom door open and stepped into the short hall of her parents’ apartment. Her duty jacket sat easy on her shoulders, front seal left open a hand’s width so the dark undershirt showed at the throat. Boots landed quiet, heel-to-heel by habit, as she turned toward the main room.
Her mother was at the kitchenette with a steaming citrus-mint mug and that barely contained look. “There you are,” she said—and then she was crossing the room, already close. “Let me see.”
Riley paused under the softwash. Her mom’s hands—warm, sure—found the open edges and drew the jacket’s seal up until it clicked home, a small sound that felt bigger than the room. She smoothed Riley’s shoulders like she had with school coats and recital costumes a lifetime ago, then leaned back, eyes bright. “You look… ready.”
Riley’s mouth ticked up. “Getting there.”
By the door, the Starfleet duffel waited—zips flush, tag clipped, weight settled. The right sleeve kept ink where regs preferred; the old training scar on her left lay quiet under cloth. One last loop through home. Then the chain starts.
“Route?” her mom asked, sliding into logistics because it gave the feelings somewhere to live. She set the mug down and tapped a quick request into the wall unit.
“Local to Armstrong Transfer,” Riley said. “Manifest scan, long-haul to the starbase. I report in there, and they hand me the final leg to Yeager.”
Her mom nodded, sealing the shape of it. “Good. People at each step saying your name.”
She crossed to the hall closet and came back with a folded undershirt, a packet of socks with the tag still on, and a scuffed tin of boot polish. “I pulled extras from storage. I should’ve asked sooner.”
“They’re perfect,” Riley said, thumbing the soft collar seam before tucking the stack beside the duffel. “Spares save lives.” The unit chimed; her mom pressed a warm tea bulb into Riley’s palm like a blessing.
“And the other socks are in your top drawer,” her mom added, half-laughing. “In case you still cram them in last-second.”
Riley snorted. “I have evolved. Slightly.”
A quiet settled—full, not fragile. Outside, a transit car sang the guideway note that meant morning was actually happening.
Her mom stepped in and hugged her—firm, uncomplicated, everything she hadn’t said braided into pressure. Riley let herself lean, armor set aside for a breath. They separated with smiles that shone a little too much and neither of them fixed it.
“Walk you to the lift?”
“Please.”
They moved down the hall together. In the cooler air, the newly sealed jacket centered her; the duffel’s grip found the groove in her hand that years of drills had carved. Floor numbers blinked as the lift hummed. Riley lined up the steps one last time: Armstrong, manifest, outbound berth, starbase intake. No heroics. Clean handoffs. Show up like you mean it.
The doors slid apart onto the concourse’s bright spill. Her mother gave her fingers a single, efficient squeeze; Riley squeezed back, shouldered the bag, and set off toward the local line—jacket sealed, shoulders squared, first leg underway.
Luna daylight pooled along the floor as Riley eased her bedroom door open and stepped into the short hall of her parents’ apartment. Her duty jacket sat easy on her shoulders, front seal left open a hand’s width so the dark undershirt showed at the throat. Boots landed quiet, heel-to-heel by habit, as she turned toward the main room.
Her mother was at the kitchenette with a steaming citrus-mint mug and that barely contained look. “There you are,” she said—and then she was crossing the room, already close. “Let me see.”
Riley paused under the softwash. Her mom’s hands—warm, sure—found the open edges and drew the jacket’s seal up until it clicked home, a small sound that felt bigger than the room. She smoothed Riley’s shoulders like she had with school coats and recital costumes a lifetime ago, then leaned back, eyes bright. “You look… ready.”
Riley’s mouth ticked up. “Getting there.”
By the door, the Starfleet duffel waited—zips flush, tag clipped, weight settled. The right sleeve kept ink where regs preferred; the old training scar on her left lay quiet under cloth. One last loop through home. Then the chain starts.
“Route?” her mom asked, sliding into logistics because it gave the feelings somewhere to live. She set the mug down and tapped a quick request into the wall unit.
“Local to Armstrong Transfer,” Riley said. “Manifest scan, long-haul to the starbase. I report in there, and they hand me the final leg to Yeager.”
Her mom nodded, sealing the shape of it. “Good. People at each step saying your name.”
She crossed to the hall closet and came back with a folded undershirt, a packet of socks with the tag still on, and a scuffed tin of boot polish. “I pulled extras from storage. I should’ve asked sooner.”
“They’re perfect,” Riley said, thumbing the soft collar seam before tucking the stack beside the duffel. “Spares save lives.” The unit chimed; her mom pressed a warm tea bulb into Riley’s palm like a blessing.
“And the other socks are in your top drawer,” her mom added, half-laughing. “In case you still cram them in last-second.”
Riley snorted. “I have evolved. Slightly.”
A quiet settled—full, not fragile. Outside, a transit car sang the guideway note that meant morning was actually happening.
Her mom stepped in and hugged her—firm, uncomplicated, everything she hadn’t said braided into pressure. Riley let herself lean, armor set aside for a breath. They separated with smiles that shone a little too much and neither of them fixed it.
“Walk you to the lift?”
“Please.”
They moved down the hall together. In the cooler air, the newly sealed jacket centered her; the duffel’s grip found the groove in her hand that years of drills had carved. Floor numbers blinked as the lift hummed. Riley lined up the steps one last time: Armstrong, manifest, outbound berth, starbase intake. No heroics. Clean handoffs. Show up like you mean it.
The doors slid apart onto the concourse’s bright spill. Her mother gave her fingers a single, efficient squeeze; Riley squeezed back, shouldered the bag, and set off toward the local line—jacket sealed, shoulders squared, first leg underway.