11-09-2025, 01:41 PM
Riley straightened at the order and gave a crisp nod. “Aye, Captain.”
She caught the quick tilt at the corner of Braggins’ mouth—a small, knowing smirk—and the dry tag that followed it, light tone wrapped around clear steel. It wasn’t mockery; it was calibration. Get it done. The assignment itself wasn’t glamorous—no heroics, no dramatic save, just getting the right person to the right place at the right time—but that was fine. Back at the Academy she’d spent weeks hauling phaser crates, running message relays between holodecks, and being the short one who could wriggle behind a junction to fetch a dropped tool. Nobody clapped for that work, yet the training officers noticed who did it without fuss. Be that person now: useful, quiet, precise.
She slipped off the Science rail, hugging the bulkhead to keep out of everyone’s lane. The Bridge kept its rhythm—clean calls, steady hands—while interference nipped and ebbed across the forward displays. Air tasted faintly of warm circuits; the deck thrummed with the particular vibration of systems pushed, not failing. She rolled her shoulders once to keep them loose. The scar along her left forearm prickled under the uniform seam—old training injury, old reminder. Eyes forward. Don’t snag a sleeve. Don’t become part of the clutter.
The turbolift doors parted and she stepped inside. “Deck—” She paused with her thumb hovering over the control, catching herself before she guessed. Don’t guess. Know. She pitched her voice to the car’s pickup. "Computer, locate Mister Tomer."
The doors sealed on a soft sigh. Riley set her stance to the lift’s hum, boots shoulder-width, hands relaxed, breathing steady. Braggins’ brief smirk and that lightly edged comment replayed in her head—not unkind, just expectant. Results, not drama. There was a comfort to that clarity. The glamorous stories always skipped the in-between steps; the real job lived in those steps. Find him. Move clean. Deliver the person, not a speech.
She mapped options while she waited for the ping: if he was close, she’d cut the route tight and keep comms quiet; if distant, she’d punch the proper deck, move at best pace, and offer a single concise update only once she had an ETA. Signal, not noise. She smoothed the front of her tunic with an absent thumb, feeling the faint outline of her hidden sleeve tattoo beneath—choices made, lines earned. You’re not here to impress. You’re here to do the work well enough that others can do theirs.
As soon as the location populated, she would give the lift its marching orders—light, direct, no fanfare. Do the job. Do it clean. If it isn’t glamorous, perfect—fewer eyes to trip you while you make it happen.
== GM-Input: Please provide the computer’s current location for Mister Tomer. ==
She caught the quick tilt at the corner of Braggins’ mouth—a small, knowing smirk—and the dry tag that followed it, light tone wrapped around clear steel. It wasn’t mockery; it was calibration. Get it done. The assignment itself wasn’t glamorous—no heroics, no dramatic save, just getting the right person to the right place at the right time—but that was fine. Back at the Academy she’d spent weeks hauling phaser crates, running message relays between holodecks, and being the short one who could wriggle behind a junction to fetch a dropped tool. Nobody clapped for that work, yet the training officers noticed who did it without fuss. Be that person now: useful, quiet, precise.
She slipped off the Science rail, hugging the bulkhead to keep out of everyone’s lane. The Bridge kept its rhythm—clean calls, steady hands—while interference nipped and ebbed across the forward displays. Air tasted faintly of warm circuits; the deck thrummed with the particular vibration of systems pushed, not failing. She rolled her shoulders once to keep them loose. The scar along her left forearm prickled under the uniform seam—old training injury, old reminder. Eyes forward. Don’t snag a sleeve. Don’t become part of the clutter.
The turbolift doors parted and she stepped inside. “Deck—” She paused with her thumb hovering over the control, catching herself before she guessed. Don’t guess. Know. She pitched her voice to the car’s pickup. "Computer, locate Mister Tomer."
The doors sealed on a soft sigh. Riley set her stance to the lift’s hum, boots shoulder-width, hands relaxed, breathing steady. Braggins’ brief smirk and that lightly edged comment replayed in her head—not unkind, just expectant. Results, not drama. There was a comfort to that clarity. The glamorous stories always skipped the in-between steps; the real job lived in those steps. Find him. Move clean. Deliver the person, not a speech.
She mapped options while she waited for the ping: if he was close, she’d cut the route tight and keep comms quiet; if distant, she’d punch the proper deck, move at best pace, and offer a single concise update only once she had an ETA. Signal, not noise. She smoothed the front of her tunic with an absent thumb, feeling the faint outline of her hidden sleeve tattoo beneath—choices made, lines earned. You’re not here to impress. You’re here to do the work well enough that others can do theirs.
As soon as the location populated, she would give the lift its marching orders—light, direct, no fanfare. Do the job. Do it clean. If it isn’t glamorous, perfect—fewer eyes to trip you while you make it happen.
== GM-Input: Please provide the computer’s current location for Mister Tomer. ==