3 hours ago
== Post Mission ==
The Yeager had settled back into its usual rhythm—stable power, quiet halls, that low, familiar hum that usually meant things were fine. Predictable. Controlled.
Riley didn’t feel fine. And not in any way that actually counted.
She was hunched at her desk, the terminal pulled too close like proximity would give her courage. The screen’s pale light caught on the edge of her tattoo, on the tension in her hands—one thumb tracing absently along her knuckle. She’d started this call twice already, killed it both times before the handshake finished. Like maybe hesitation could pass for a technical glitch.
It didn’t fly a third time.
She keyed in the secure address. The screen flickered. She waited through the handshake, watching that status line crawl across the bottom like it was stalling for her. Then the soft chime—connection live.
A moment later, the other side resolved into view.
Torres’ office was exactly what she remembered—clean angles, that strict Academy order, not a damn thing out of place. And there he was, sitting behind his desk like the whole setup had been designed around him. Uniform crisp, hair trimmed neat—just enough gray at the edges to make him look seasoned, not soft. When he looked at the screen, it was direct, measured—like he’d already heard half of what she hadn’t said yet.
[Wright,] he said, voice even through the speaker. [You look like you’ve been hovering over that button for an hour.]
Riley let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Wasn’t that long.”
[Mm. I picked up. So talk.]
She straightened reflexively, like posture might make it easier to get the words out. “Sir… thanks for taking this.”
[Talk, Wright.] His tone didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to.
She glanced down at the corner of her desk—more habit than focus—then back at the camera. “I can’t stop running the mission through my head. Over and over. It’s like... every time I blink.”
Torres didn’t say anything. Didn’t nod, didn’t rush her. Just waited—hands folded, steady as stone.
“I keep telling myself it’s over,” she said finally. “That the ship moved on, that I should too. But it’s like—my brain’s still back there. Didn’t get the memo, or maybe just threw it out.”
[Good.]
That threw her. “Good?”
[Means your brain’s doing its job,] Torres said. [It’s processing a failure scenario. Trying to find the fault, so it can patch the system. Just gotta make sure it doesn’t reroute all that blame back to you.]
She swallowed hard. That one hit a little too square in the chest.
“I was supposed to keep eyes on him,” she said, sharper than intended. “Escort detail. Stay close. Keep him contained. But he still slipped. And after that, it felt like we were chasing smoke.”
[‘Slipped’ makes it sound like a magic trick,] he said calmly. [That’s not an answer. What happened?]
Riley let the silence hang a beat too long, then pulled in a breath—this time slower, steadier. “I wish I could tell you. There wasn’t some clean moment I can circle in red. I keep looking for it. Keep thinking, ‘Ah, there. That’s where I should’ve...’” She stopped, jaw tightening. “But every time I land on something, it turns into another maybe. Another version where I might’ve made the same call.”
[Then stop chasing the perfect failure,] Torres said. [There’s no tidy moment to put in a frame. That’s not how real ops work. They’re not holonovels. They’re stacked choices. Layers. And some layers crack.]
She didn’t reply right away. Her hand dropped to her knee, fingers curling briefly into the fabric. One breath. Two.
“And what am I supposed to do with it?” she asked, quieter now. “Because I’m not sleeping. Barely eating. Feels like I’m burning through both ends of a fuse that’s already gone.”
Torres didn’t flinch at the shift. Just locked eyes with the camera and gave the faintest nod—an acknowledgment, not agreement.
Then, finally, he leaned back just slightly. Not casual. Just a signal: shift gears.
[Now we’re getting somewhere,] he said. [Practical.]
== TBC ==
The Yeager had settled back into its usual rhythm—stable power, quiet halls, that low, familiar hum that usually meant things were fine. Predictable. Controlled.
Riley didn’t feel fine. And not in any way that actually counted.
She was hunched at her desk, the terminal pulled too close like proximity would give her courage. The screen’s pale light caught on the edge of her tattoo, on the tension in her hands—one thumb tracing absently along her knuckle. She’d started this call twice already, killed it both times before the handshake finished. Like maybe hesitation could pass for a technical glitch.
It didn’t fly a third time.
She keyed in the secure address. The screen flickered. She waited through the handshake, watching that status line crawl across the bottom like it was stalling for her. Then the soft chime—connection live.
A moment later, the other side resolved into view.
Torres’ office was exactly what she remembered—clean angles, that strict Academy order, not a damn thing out of place. And there he was, sitting behind his desk like the whole setup had been designed around him. Uniform crisp, hair trimmed neat—just enough gray at the edges to make him look seasoned, not soft. When he looked at the screen, it was direct, measured—like he’d already heard half of what she hadn’t said yet.
[Wright,] he said, voice even through the speaker. [You look like you’ve been hovering over that button for an hour.]
Riley let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Wasn’t that long.”
[Mm. I picked up. So talk.]
She straightened reflexively, like posture might make it easier to get the words out. “Sir… thanks for taking this.”
[Talk, Wright.] His tone didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to.
She glanced down at the corner of her desk—more habit than focus—then back at the camera. “I can’t stop running the mission through my head. Over and over. It’s like... every time I blink.”
Torres didn’t say anything. Didn’t nod, didn’t rush her. Just waited—hands folded, steady as stone.
“I keep telling myself it’s over,” she said finally. “That the ship moved on, that I should too. But it’s like—my brain’s still back there. Didn’t get the memo, or maybe just threw it out.”
[Good.]
That threw her. “Good?”
[Means your brain’s doing its job,] Torres said. [It’s processing a failure scenario. Trying to find the fault, so it can patch the system. Just gotta make sure it doesn’t reroute all that blame back to you.]
She swallowed hard. That one hit a little too square in the chest.
“I was supposed to keep eyes on him,” she said, sharper than intended. “Escort detail. Stay close. Keep him contained. But he still slipped. And after that, it felt like we were chasing smoke.”
[‘Slipped’ makes it sound like a magic trick,] he said calmly. [That’s not an answer. What happened?]
Riley let the silence hang a beat too long, then pulled in a breath—this time slower, steadier. “I wish I could tell you. There wasn’t some clean moment I can circle in red. I keep looking for it. Keep thinking, ‘Ah, there. That’s where I should’ve...’” She stopped, jaw tightening. “But every time I land on something, it turns into another maybe. Another version where I might’ve made the same call.”
[Then stop chasing the perfect failure,] Torres said. [There’s no tidy moment to put in a frame. That’s not how real ops work. They’re not holonovels. They’re stacked choices. Layers. And some layers crack.]
She didn’t reply right away. Her hand dropped to her knee, fingers curling briefly into the fabric. One breath. Two.
“And what am I supposed to do with it?” she asked, quieter now. “Because I’m not sleeping. Barely eating. Feels like I’m burning through both ends of a fuse that’s already gone.”
Torres didn’t flinch at the shift. Just locked eyes with the camera and gave the faintest nod—an acknowledgment, not agreement.
Then, finally, he leaned back just slightly. Not casual. Just a signal: shift gears.
[Now we’re getting somewhere,] he said. [Practical.]
== TBC ==