11-22-2025, 10:10 PM
The cough cut across the background hum of Yeager and the quiet hiss of open comm channels, close enough that it pulled Riley’s attention off the stubbornly sealed VIP hatch. The sound didn’t belong to the ship—too human, too small—but it slotted neatly into the moment all the same.
She turned just enough to bring the newcomer into view without fully taking her shoulder away from Tomer’s door. Security gold, enlisted cut to the jacket, wavy blonde hair pulled back just enough to be regulation without losing every bit of personality. There was a faint tightness in the woman’s stance, the kind Riley recognised from long patrols and minor injuries—weight kept subtly off one foot, jaw set like she was stubbornly ignoring it. End-of-shift fatigue written between the lines.
Convenient timing. Or maybe the universe deciding she didn’t have to stand here looking like she was about to break into a VIP cabin alone.
“Is everything alright, Ma’am?”
Riley gave a short nod, letting some of the tension ease from her jaw without losing the edge she needed to keep. Up close the petty officer looked a fraction younger than she’d expected, though that might just have been the slight uncertainty in her eyes. New to the ship, maybe. Or just new to having a midshipman call the shots at a VIP’s door.
“Could be nothing,” Riley said, pitching her voice low but steady, conscious of the open comm hanging in the air between them. “But Mister Tomer is confirmed in his quarters and hasn’t responded to the chime.” She angled her head toward the hatch, just slightly. “I’ve got Medical and Security looped in on an open channel in case this turns into something more than a welfare check.”
Or he’s just decided the diplomatic corps is exempt from answering doors like everyone else.
The corridor felt narrower than it actually was. Standard shipboard carpeting, light grey bulkheads, a tasteful strip of darker trim that ran at shoulder height along the wall—little visual cues that this was officer country, not the more utilitarian enlisted decks. The lighting was a touch warmer here too, more atmospheric than strictly necessary, like Starfleet had decided ambience might make the VIPs behave better.
Her gaze flicked down the corridor—clear, quiet, just the faint murmur of distant conversation and the occasional thrum of a turbolift a few junctions away—before she looked back to the petty officer. This part of the ship was usually calm at this hour. Too early for most people to be turning in, too late for most of the day shift bustle. If anything went sideways, it wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
“You’re just in time, Petty Officer…?”
Once she had the name, Riley let it roll through her head once, tying it to the face, the posture, the slightly favouring-one-foot stance. Names mattered. People worked better when they knew you saw them as more than a uniform.
“Good,” she said, giving Bailey a small, approving nod. “Take position on the far side of the doorway, out of the line of the opening.” She indicated the spot with a slight tilt of her chin. “If this is a medical issue, I want you there to help clear space for the med team. If it’s not…”
She let that hang for a beat, feeling the weight of all the possibilities that fell under not. Unstable VIP, environmental fault, an unexpected guest who really shouldn’t be there. None of them were likely, statistically speaking. But Security didn’t exist for the likely scenarios.
“We treat it like any other potentially compromised compartment until we know otherwise.”
As Bailey moved into position, Riley shifted her own stance, squaring up to the door again. She kept herself slightly offset from the centreline—habit drilled in by instructors who’d never let her forget how small a target she actually was. One hand hovered near the panel where the limited override controls sat locked behind their security prompt, fingers relaxed but ready. The other rested lightly near her sidearm, not quite touching the holster. Present, visible, but not brandished.
You’re not about to phaser down a dignitary’s door unless you absolutely have to, Wright. Captain would have my head… then ask why I didn’t think of three better options first.
The low murmur of voices on the open channel brushed against her ear—a quiet reminder that they had an audience. Medical standing by. Security monitoring. Someone up the chain of command no doubt watching the situation tagged on a status board somewhere. She’d chosen not to bother the Bridge directly unless this escalated, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on at least one person’s mental radar.
“I’m going to give him one more chance to answer before we escalate,” she said, half to Bailey and half for the benefit of whoever on the other end of the comms was listening. “No point in kicking over a hornet’s nest if he’s just asleep.”
Or ignoring her on purpose. That thought she kept to herself.
She drew a slow breath, feeling the familiar press of the uniform collar against her throat, the faint vibration of the deck under her boots as Yeager’s engines whispered their constant song through the hull. It grounded her—not that she would have admitted she needed grounding over something as simple as a stubborn door and a silent VIP. Still, first days aboard a new ship had a way of making every decision feel like it was under a magnifying glass.
Riley raised her voice just enough to carry through the hatch without sounding like she was barking at a suspect. There was a line between formal and confrontational; she tried to land squarely on the former.
“Mister Tomer, this is Midshipman Wright, Security,” she called, the words clear and precise. “You have Medical and Security on standby. Please acknowledge, sir.”
The words settled into the corridor, swallowed by carpet and bulkheads and the ever-present heartbeat of the ship. Riley let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats, counting them out in her head. One. Two. Three. Each one felt longer than the last. She tuned everything else out—Bailey’s quiet presence to her right, the low hiss of the open channel, the distant whisper of a door cycling somewhere down the hall—and focused on the space beyond the hatch.
She listened for anything: the rustle of movement, the thud of an uneven footstep, a muffled curse in whatever language Tomer defaulted to when woken unexpectedly. Even a groggy complaint would have been welcome.
Come on, just tell me I’m overreacting and we can both walk away from this slightly embarrassed instead of in report-writing territory.
Her fingers hovered over the override authorization, the sequence of commands already laid out in her mind. She could almost hear her Academy instructors narrating over her shoulder—priority of life, risk assessment, chain of command. She pushed the ghosts of their voices aside, narrowing her focus to the here and now.
If Tomer answered, she could back down cleanly, note the contact, and let Medical decide whether to insist on a face-to-face check. If he didn’t… then this corridor, this hatch, and the woman at her side were about to become the centre of a very different kind of attention.
Either way, Riley stayed poised on that knife-edge moment, ready to move the instant a voice in her ear—or the continued absence of one behind the door—made it clear which way this was going.
== Tag Crescent ==
== GM-Input: Is there any movement/sound inside before we break in? ==
She turned just enough to bring the newcomer into view without fully taking her shoulder away from Tomer’s door. Security gold, enlisted cut to the jacket, wavy blonde hair pulled back just enough to be regulation without losing every bit of personality. There was a faint tightness in the woman’s stance, the kind Riley recognised from long patrols and minor injuries—weight kept subtly off one foot, jaw set like she was stubbornly ignoring it. End-of-shift fatigue written between the lines.
Convenient timing. Or maybe the universe deciding she didn’t have to stand here looking like she was about to break into a VIP cabin alone.
“Is everything alright, Ma’am?”
Riley gave a short nod, letting some of the tension ease from her jaw without losing the edge she needed to keep. Up close the petty officer looked a fraction younger than she’d expected, though that might just have been the slight uncertainty in her eyes. New to the ship, maybe. Or just new to having a midshipman call the shots at a VIP’s door.
“Could be nothing,” Riley said, pitching her voice low but steady, conscious of the open comm hanging in the air between them. “But Mister Tomer is confirmed in his quarters and hasn’t responded to the chime.” She angled her head toward the hatch, just slightly. “I’ve got Medical and Security looped in on an open channel in case this turns into something more than a welfare check.”
Or he’s just decided the diplomatic corps is exempt from answering doors like everyone else.
The corridor felt narrower than it actually was. Standard shipboard carpeting, light grey bulkheads, a tasteful strip of darker trim that ran at shoulder height along the wall—little visual cues that this was officer country, not the more utilitarian enlisted decks. The lighting was a touch warmer here too, more atmospheric than strictly necessary, like Starfleet had decided ambience might make the VIPs behave better.
Her gaze flicked down the corridor—clear, quiet, just the faint murmur of distant conversation and the occasional thrum of a turbolift a few junctions away—before she looked back to the petty officer. This part of the ship was usually calm at this hour. Too early for most people to be turning in, too late for most of the day shift bustle. If anything went sideways, it wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
“You’re just in time, Petty Officer…?”
Once she had the name, Riley let it roll through her head once, tying it to the face, the posture, the slightly favouring-one-foot stance. Names mattered. People worked better when they knew you saw them as more than a uniform.
“Good,” she said, giving Bailey a small, approving nod. “Take position on the far side of the doorway, out of the line of the opening.” She indicated the spot with a slight tilt of her chin. “If this is a medical issue, I want you there to help clear space for the med team. If it’s not…”
She let that hang for a beat, feeling the weight of all the possibilities that fell under not. Unstable VIP, environmental fault, an unexpected guest who really shouldn’t be there. None of them were likely, statistically speaking. But Security didn’t exist for the likely scenarios.
“We treat it like any other potentially compromised compartment until we know otherwise.”
As Bailey moved into position, Riley shifted her own stance, squaring up to the door again. She kept herself slightly offset from the centreline—habit drilled in by instructors who’d never let her forget how small a target she actually was. One hand hovered near the panel where the limited override controls sat locked behind their security prompt, fingers relaxed but ready. The other rested lightly near her sidearm, not quite touching the holster. Present, visible, but not brandished.
You’re not about to phaser down a dignitary’s door unless you absolutely have to, Wright. Captain would have my head… then ask why I didn’t think of three better options first.
The low murmur of voices on the open channel brushed against her ear—a quiet reminder that they had an audience. Medical standing by. Security monitoring. Someone up the chain of command no doubt watching the situation tagged on a status board somewhere. She’d chosen not to bother the Bridge directly unless this escalated, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on at least one person’s mental radar.
“I’m going to give him one more chance to answer before we escalate,” she said, half to Bailey and half for the benefit of whoever on the other end of the comms was listening. “No point in kicking over a hornet’s nest if he’s just asleep.”
Or ignoring her on purpose. That thought she kept to herself.
She drew a slow breath, feeling the familiar press of the uniform collar against her throat, the faint vibration of the deck under her boots as Yeager’s engines whispered their constant song through the hull. It grounded her—not that she would have admitted she needed grounding over something as simple as a stubborn door and a silent VIP. Still, first days aboard a new ship had a way of making every decision feel like it was under a magnifying glass.
Riley raised her voice just enough to carry through the hatch without sounding like she was barking at a suspect. There was a line between formal and confrontational; she tried to land squarely on the former.
“Mister Tomer, this is Midshipman Wright, Security,” she called, the words clear and precise. “You have Medical and Security on standby. Please acknowledge, sir.”
The words settled into the corridor, swallowed by carpet and bulkheads and the ever-present heartbeat of the ship. Riley let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats, counting them out in her head. One. Two. Three. Each one felt longer than the last. She tuned everything else out—Bailey’s quiet presence to her right, the low hiss of the open channel, the distant whisper of a door cycling somewhere down the hall—and focused on the space beyond the hatch.
She listened for anything: the rustle of movement, the thud of an uneven footstep, a muffled curse in whatever language Tomer defaulted to when woken unexpectedly. Even a groggy complaint would have been welcome.
Come on, just tell me I’m overreacting and we can both walk away from this slightly embarrassed instead of in report-writing territory.
Her fingers hovered over the override authorization, the sequence of commands already laid out in her mind. She could almost hear her Academy instructors narrating over her shoulder—priority of life, risk assessment, chain of command. She pushed the ghosts of their voices aside, narrowing her focus to the here and now.
If Tomer answered, she could back down cleanly, note the contact, and let Medical decide whether to insist on a face-to-face check. If he didn’t… then this corridor, this hatch, and the woman at her side were about to become the centre of a very different kind of attention.
Either way, Riley stayed poised on that knife-edge moment, ready to move the instant a voice in her ear—or the continued absence of one behind the door—made it clear which way this was going.
== Tag Crescent ==
== GM-Input: Is there any movement/sound inside before we break in? ==