12-29-2025, 06:57 PM
Riley’s commbadge felt like it weighed a kilogram the moment Braggins’ message came through—no preamble, no softening, just the Captain’s voice turned into a single, hard directive.
[Belay that. Mister Tomer is under suspicion of sabotage and murder. Utilise whatever force necessary to apprehend him.]
For a heartbeat, the corridor might as well have narrowed. The air didn’t change, the lights didn’t dim, the deck didn’t tilt—nothing dramatic like the holovids—but Riley’s body still reacted like it had. Shoulders up. Breath shallow. A cold line of focus drawn straight down the center of her. Her eyes snapped to d’Tor’an first—quick, instinctive—then to Crescent, just as briefly. No words passed between them, none needed. The Captain’s message landed like a quiet detonation, and for a moment Riley could only guess what it did to the other two—whether it hardened their focus, tightened their patience, or simply added another layer of caution to every next step.
Sabotage and murder.
That wasn’t “missing VIP.” That wasn’t “uncooperative civilian.” That was a word that put red in a report and weight in a sentence. That was a word that meant someone else—someone on this ship—might already be dead.
Riley’s gaze returned to the corridor. She tracked automatically: the hatch, the corners, the empty stretch of passage beyond. She listened for anything that didn’t belong—footfalls that didn’t match their cadence, the faint scrape of a maintenance panel being shifted, the almost-inaudible whine of a tool being engaged. The ship’s background hum stayed steady, indifferent, and that almost made it worse.
She tightened her grip on the civilian commbadge she’d been holding, not because it was useful as a weapon, but because it anchored her. Evidence. A thread. Something real when everything else had just turned sharp-edged.
“Acknowledged,” she said, and kept it at that—no questions, no qualifiers, no wasted syllables. The Captain had given the order; Riley’s job was to execute it cleanly and not get in the way of the people who had the full picture.
Riley slipped the civilian commbadge into her pocket, securing it the same way she would any other piece of evidence—kept close, kept safe, kept accounted for—then shifted her stance slightly so she could keep the corridor in view without blocking anyone’s movement. She didn’t crowd, didn’t overstep—just made herself useful in the space she occupied, the way Academy drills had hammered into her.
The phrase kept replaying in her head, snagging on the same word every time.
Necessary for what? To stop him? To keep him from hurting someone else? To keep him from getting away?
There were a dozen ways a sentence like that could be interpreted wrong if you were stupid or scared. Riley wasn’t going to be either.
Her hand went to the Type-1 at her hip. She didn’t draw it—didn’t want a weapon suddenly out in a tight space unless it needed to be—but she thumbed the controls by feel, confirming the setting and making a small adjustment. Ready without advertising it. She kept her posture neutral, shoulders squared, eyes forward; the kind of calm that didn’t invite panic.
Riley’s gaze flicked to d’Tor’an again—only long enough to read whether the Security Chief needed anything from her, and then back to the corridor.
“Chief,” she said low, keeping her voice pitched to be heard without broadcasting down the passage, “with the Captain’s update… do you want this kept tight between us, or do you want Security Complex looped in for containment around Impulse?”
Her mind didn’t stop moving.
If he’s using maintenance, then he knows how to move through it—or he’s desperate enough to try and get lost in it.
Both were bad. The Impulse Deck was busy by nature. Even when it wasn’t at peak tempo, it had traffic—technicians, access routes, multiple ways to vanish into the ship’s guts if you had the nerve and a little luck. A maintenance hatch alert wasn’t just a door opening; it was an opportunity for someone to stop being visible.
Riley’s thoughts started mapping without asking permission—adjacent junctions, likely routes, what a person would choose if they wanted speed versus concealment, what they’d choose if they were injured, what they’d choose if they thought they were being followed. Academy drills rose up in her memory, crisp and relentless: don’t chase into a blind corridor; contain, control, force the choice. Containment didn’t have to mean a full-ship broadcast; it could be targeted—quiet lockdowns on specific access points, a net that tightened instead of a search that sprawled. But it also meant more people involved, more variables, more chance of someone walking into the wrong place at the wrong time.
And now the Captain had said murder. That changed the math.
Riley pulled a breath in through her nose, steadying herself. She could feel how close adrenaline was to turning her movements fast instead of precise, and she forced the precision instead. The Captain’s phrasing repeated, stripped of everything but intent.
Whatever force necessary.
Don’t get creative, Wright. Don’t get brave. Get him alive if you can—get him stopped if you can’t.
Her thumb hovered near her own commbadge, not transmitting yet. Just ready. If d’Tor’an ordered it, Riley would relay. If d’Tor’an didn’t, Riley would hold. That was the discipline part—following the chain without freezing.
She looked down the corridor one more time, hard and searching, as if Tomer might suddenly step out and make this simple. Nothing. The ship stayed quiet in that way that always felt like it was holding its own breath.
Riley adjusted her stance again—subtle, balanced—and kept her focus narrow to what mattered: move with the team, watch the angles, don’t get separated, don’t let a suspect disappear into a place where he could turn into a threat.
Missing VIP was a problem you solved.
Murder was a problem that solved you if you got careless.
Her gaze stayed forward—down the corridor, to the hatch, to anything that didn’t belong.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t a welfare check anymore.
It was a hunt.
== Tags, and be vewy vewy quiet we're hunting space wabbits!! ==
>> Ancillary Locations >>
[Belay that. Mister Tomer is under suspicion of sabotage and murder. Utilise whatever force necessary to apprehend him.]
For a heartbeat, the corridor might as well have narrowed. The air didn’t change, the lights didn’t dim, the deck didn’t tilt—nothing dramatic like the holovids—but Riley’s body still reacted like it had. Shoulders up. Breath shallow. A cold line of focus drawn straight down the center of her. Her eyes snapped to d’Tor’an first—quick, instinctive—then to Crescent, just as briefly. No words passed between them, none needed. The Captain’s message landed like a quiet detonation, and for a moment Riley could only guess what it did to the other two—whether it hardened their focus, tightened their patience, or simply added another layer of caution to every next step.
Sabotage and murder.
That wasn’t “missing VIP.” That wasn’t “uncooperative civilian.” That was a word that put red in a report and weight in a sentence. That was a word that meant someone else—someone on this ship—might already be dead.
Riley’s gaze returned to the corridor. She tracked automatically: the hatch, the corners, the empty stretch of passage beyond. She listened for anything that didn’t belong—footfalls that didn’t match their cadence, the faint scrape of a maintenance panel being shifted, the almost-inaudible whine of a tool being engaged. The ship’s background hum stayed steady, indifferent, and that almost made it worse.
She tightened her grip on the civilian commbadge she’d been holding, not because it was useful as a weapon, but because it anchored her. Evidence. A thread. Something real when everything else had just turned sharp-edged.
“Acknowledged,” she said, and kept it at that—no questions, no qualifiers, no wasted syllables. The Captain had given the order; Riley’s job was to execute it cleanly and not get in the way of the people who had the full picture.
Riley slipped the civilian commbadge into her pocket, securing it the same way she would any other piece of evidence—kept close, kept safe, kept accounted for—then shifted her stance slightly so she could keep the corridor in view without blocking anyone’s movement. She didn’t crowd, didn’t overstep—just made herself useful in the space she occupied, the way Academy drills had hammered into her.
The phrase kept replaying in her head, snagging on the same word every time.
Necessary for what? To stop him? To keep him from hurting someone else? To keep him from getting away?
There were a dozen ways a sentence like that could be interpreted wrong if you were stupid or scared. Riley wasn’t going to be either.
Her hand went to the Type-1 at her hip. She didn’t draw it—didn’t want a weapon suddenly out in a tight space unless it needed to be—but she thumbed the controls by feel, confirming the setting and making a small adjustment. Ready without advertising it. She kept her posture neutral, shoulders squared, eyes forward; the kind of calm that didn’t invite panic.
Riley’s gaze flicked to d’Tor’an again—only long enough to read whether the Security Chief needed anything from her, and then back to the corridor.
“Chief,” she said low, keeping her voice pitched to be heard without broadcasting down the passage, “with the Captain’s update… do you want this kept tight between us, or do you want Security Complex looped in for containment around Impulse?”
Her mind didn’t stop moving.
If he’s using maintenance, then he knows how to move through it—or he’s desperate enough to try and get lost in it.
Both were bad. The Impulse Deck was busy by nature. Even when it wasn’t at peak tempo, it had traffic—technicians, access routes, multiple ways to vanish into the ship’s guts if you had the nerve and a little luck. A maintenance hatch alert wasn’t just a door opening; it was an opportunity for someone to stop being visible.
Riley’s thoughts started mapping without asking permission—adjacent junctions, likely routes, what a person would choose if they wanted speed versus concealment, what they’d choose if they were injured, what they’d choose if they thought they were being followed. Academy drills rose up in her memory, crisp and relentless: don’t chase into a blind corridor; contain, control, force the choice. Containment didn’t have to mean a full-ship broadcast; it could be targeted—quiet lockdowns on specific access points, a net that tightened instead of a search that sprawled. But it also meant more people involved, more variables, more chance of someone walking into the wrong place at the wrong time.
And now the Captain had said murder. That changed the math.
Riley pulled a breath in through her nose, steadying herself. She could feel how close adrenaline was to turning her movements fast instead of precise, and she forced the precision instead. The Captain’s phrasing repeated, stripped of everything but intent.
Whatever force necessary.
Don’t get creative, Wright. Don’t get brave. Get him alive if you can—get him stopped if you can’t.
Her thumb hovered near her own commbadge, not transmitting yet. Just ready. If d’Tor’an ordered it, Riley would relay. If d’Tor’an didn’t, Riley would hold. That was the discipline part—following the chain without freezing.
She looked down the corridor one more time, hard and searching, as if Tomer might suddenly step out and make this simple. Nothing. The ship stayed quiet in that way that always felt like it was holding its own breath.
Riley adjusted her stance again—subtle, balanced—and kept her focus narrow to what mattered: move with the team, watch the angles, don’t get separated, don’t let a suspect disappear into a place where he could turn into a threat.
Missing VIP was a problem you solved.
Murder was a problem that solved you if you got careless.
Her gaze stayed forward—down the corridor, to the hatch, to anything that didn’t belong.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t a welfare check anymore.
It was a hunt.
== Tags, and be vewy vewy quiet we're hunting space wabbits!! ==
>> Ancillary Locations >>