02-19-2026, 05:56 AM
Riley didn’t answer right away.
Not because she didn’t know—because she did. And saying it out loud meant peeling off the last thin layer of I was doing my job she’d been hiding behind.
Her eyes drifted off the camera for a second. Not to avoid him—just to find something solid in the room. The edge of the desk. The corner of the screen. The quiet hum of the Yeager that didn’t care about guilt.
When she looked back, her expression had tightened into something more controlled than calm.
“It’s the second one,” Riley said. Simple. No qualifiers. No to be fair.
She swallowed. “Losing him physically—yeah, that’s part of it. I hate that I lost control of the situation. I hate that he slipped out from under us.” Her voice caught, then steadied. “But that’s not what keeps waking me up.”
Torres didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the camera like he was holding the line for her.
[Say it clean, Wright. No padding.]
Riley’s fingers pressed together in her lap hard enough to blanch her knuckles before she forced them to ease.
“What’s eating me alive is realizing I didn’t start treating his life like it mattered until it looked like it was already gone,” she said, quieter now—rougher around the edges. “Like his survival was a side objective. Something I’d get to after I handled the risk.”
Torres’ expression didn’t soften, but something in his tone shifted—less blade, more brace.
[Good. That’s the truth.]
Riley let out a slow breath. It came out shakier than she wanted.
“And the worst part is—I can justify it,” she continued. “Suspected saboteur. Threat profile. Protect the ship.” She held the camera like she was daring herself not to flinch. “But when it felt like he might’ve been dead, none of that mattered. All I could think was that I’d let a person disappear into the guts of the ship—and I hadn’t cared enough, early enough, to stop it.”
Torres’ hand shifted on the desk, small—like he was underlining the point without interrupting.
[That’s why I teach it the way I do. Threat and life at the same time. You don’t get to pick one because it’s easier.]
Riley’s shoulders rose and fell with a controlled breath.
“I don’t want to be that kind of Security officer,” she said. “I don’t want the switch to flip only when there’s blood. I want it there from the start—threat and life, both.”
Torres held the silence for a beat, then nodded once. Small. Decisive.
[Then you build the habit, not the feeling. Feelings are late. Habits show up on time.]
Riley blinked, throat tight again.
[Next time you’re handed someone like him, you write it down before you move: preserve life, maintain control. You brief yourself on it if nobody else is there. You make it a rule you follow when you’re tired, angry, and scared.]
Riley’s jaw set—not in defiance. In relief, almost. Like something inside her finally had a shape it could hold onto.
Torres’ gaze didn’t let her off the hook.
[And you stop calling it “caring.” You call it duty. You protect life because that’s what you are. Not because the situation finally made you feel bad enough to do it.]
Riley nodded—once, small, but real.
Torres didn’t let that be the end of it.
[So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to finish your five points. You’re going to sleep. Even if it’s ugly sleep. And tomorrow, you’re going to get out of that cabin and put yourself in a room with another living, breathing person.]
Riley blinked, and a hint of defensiveness slipped in before she could catch it. “Sir, I— I do.”
Torres’ eyes narrowed a fraction, like he could already hear where she was going.
“I’m not in a private cabin,” Riley added, too quickly. “I’ve got a roommate. Most of us do. I’m not exactly… alone.”
Torres didn’t bite. He just waited until her words ran out of momentum.
[You’re not alone in terms of occupancy,] he said evenly. [You’re alone in terms of engagement. Sharing a room is not the same as sharing weight.]
Riley went still. Heat crept into her face—embarrassment, irritation, and the worst part: he was right.
[Not a report. Not a debrief. A person,] Torres continued. [Someone who knows you well enough to notice when you’re lying by omission. Someone you trust enough to let them see you’re not fine.]
Riley’s throat tightened, because her brain supplied a name before she could stop it.
T’Varen.
“She’s… not on this ship,” Riley said. The words came out like a fact she’d already tried to use as armor.
[No,] Torres agreed. [Not currently.]
Riley waited. She’d learned the hard way that Torres rarely said anything by accident.
He glanced slightly to the side of his terminal—brief, like checking a mental list—then back to her.
[Sometimes, Wright, you don’t need a new technique,] Torres said, voice mild. [You need a familiar face in the right place.]
Riley stared at him, suspicion and hope tangling in her chest hard enough to speed her pulse.
“Sir,” she said slowly, “what does that mean.”
Torres’ mouth twitched—almost amusement, almost not.
[It means you should keep your next few days flexible,] he said. [And maybe try not to pretend you’re surprised when the universe offers you the sort of support you should’ve asked for yourself.]
Riley’s breath caught. “That’s— that’s not an answer.”
[It’s the only answer you’re getting,] Torres replied, teacher-cryptic and maddening as ever.
Riley sat back, trying to read his face through the monitor like it was a puzzle she could solve. She couldn’t. But she knew him well enough to recognize the shape of a favor being pulled out of thin air—strings tugged somewhere far from her line of sight.
“I… okay,” Riley said, because it was the only word she could find that didn’t turn into an accusation or a plea.
Torres held her for another beat.
[Finish your five points,] he reminded her. [Then sleep. Let the ship carry you for a few hours.]
“Yes, sir,” Riley said—and meant it.
The call ended a moment later. Torres’ image collapsed into a clean, dark interface, the audio cutting out with a soft chime. For a second the screen went black enough to catch Riley’s faint reflection—tired eyes, stiff posture—then the Starfleet delta shimmered into view at center display, crisp and familiar, like connection terminated stamped with authority.
Not because she didn’t know—because she did. And saying it out loud meant peeling off the last thin layer of I was doing my job she’d been hiding behind.
Her eyes drifted off the camera for a second. Not to avoid him—just to find something solid in the room. The edge of the desk. The corner of the screen. The quiet hum of the Yeager that didn’t care about guilt.
When she looked back, her expression had tightened into something more controlled than calm.
“It’s the second one,” Riley said. Simple. No qualifiers. No to be fair.
She swallowed. “Losing him physically—yeah, that’s part of it. I hate that I lost control of the situation. I hate that he slipped out from under us.” Her voice caught, then steadied. “But that’s not what keeps waking me up.”
Torres didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the camera like he was holding the line for her.
[Say it clean, Wright. No padding.]
Riley’s fingers pressed together in her lap hard enough to blanch her knuckles before she forced them to ease.
“What’s eating me alive is realizing I didn’t start treating his life like it mattered until it looked like it was already gone,” she said, quieter now—rougher around the edges. “Like his survival was a side objective. Something I’d get to after I handled the risk.”
Torres’ expression didn’t soften, but something in his tone shifted—less blade, more brace.
[Good. That’s the truth.]
Riley let out a slow breath. It came out shakier than she wanted.
“And the worst part is—I can justify it,” she continued. “Suspected saboteur. Threat profile. Protect the ship.” She held the camera like she was daring herself not to flinch. “But when it felt like he might’ve been dead, none of that mattered. All I could think was that I’d let a person disappear into the guts of the ship—and I hadn’t cared enough, early enough, to stop it.”
Torres’ hand shifted on the desk, small—like he was underlining the point without interrupting.
[That’s why I teach it the way I do. Threat and life at the same time. You don’t get to pick one because it’s easier.]
Riley’s shoulders rose and fell with a controlled breath.
“I don’t want to be that kind of Security officer,” she said. “I don’t want the switch to flip only when there’s blood. I want it there from the start—threat and life, both.”
Torres held the silence for a beat, then nodded once. Small. Decisive.
[Then you build the habit, not the feeling. Feelings are late. Habits show up on time.]
Riley blinked, throat tight again.
[Next time you’re handed someone like him, you write it down before you move: preserve life, maintain control. You brief yourself on it if nobody else is there. You make it a rule you follow when you’re tired, angry, and scared.]
Riley’s jaw set—not in defiance. In relief, almost. Like something inside her finally had a shape it could hold onto.
Torres’ gaze didn’t let her off the hook.
[And you stop calling it “caring.” You call it duty. You protect life because that’s what you are. Not because the situation finally made you feel bad enough to do it.]
Riley nodded—once, small, but real.
Torres didn’t let that be the end of it.
[So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to finish your five points. You’re going to sleep. Even if it’s ugly sleep. And tomorrow, you’re going to get out of that cabin and put yourself in a room with another living, breathing person.]
Riley blinked, and a hint of defensiveness slipped in before she could catch it. “Sir, I— I do.”
Torres’ eyes narrowed a fraction, like he could already hear where she was going.
“I’m not in a private cabin,” Riley added, too quickly. “I’ve got a roommate. Most of us do. I’m not exactly… alone.”
Torres didn’t bite. He just waited until her words ran out of momentum.
[You’re not alone in terms of occupancy,] he said evenly. [You’re alone in terms of engagement. Sharing a room is not the same as sharing weight.]
Riley went still. Heat crept into her face—embarrassment, irritation, and the worst part: he was right.
[Not a report. Not a debrief. A person,] Torres continued. [Someone who knows you well enough to notice when you’re lying by omission. Someone you trust enough to let them see you’re not fine.]
Riley’s throat tightened, because her brain supplied a name before she could stop it.
T’Varen.
“She’s… not on this ship,” Riley said. The words came out like a fact she’d already tried to use as armor.
[No,] Torres agreed. [Not currently.]
Riley waited. She’d learned the hard way that Torres rarely said anything by accident.
He glanced slightly to the side of his terminal—brief, like checking a mental list—then back to her.
[Sometimes, Wright, you don’t need a new technique,] Torres said, voice mild. [You need a familiar face in the right place.]
Riley stared at him, suspicion and hope tangling in her chest hard enough to speed her pulse.
“Sir,” she said slowly, “what does that mean.”
Torres’ mouth twitched—almost amusement, almost not.
[It means you should keep your next few days flexible,] he said. [And maybe try not to pretend you’re surprised when the universe offers you the sort of support you should’ve asked for yourself.]
Riley’s breath caught. “That’s— that’s not an answer.”
[It’s the only answer you’re getting,] Torres replied, teacher-cryptic and maddening as ever.
Riley sat back, trying to read his face through the monitor like it was a puzzle she could solve. She couldn’t. But she knew him well enough to recognize the shape of a favor being pulled out of thin air—strings tugged somewhere far from her line of sight.
“I… okay,” Riley said, because it was the only word she could find that didn’t turn into an accusation or a plea.
Torres held her for another beat.
[Finish your five points,] he reminded her. [Then sleep. Let the ship carry you for a few hours.]
“Yes, sir,” Riley said—and meant it.
The call ended a moment later. Torres’ image collapsed into a clean, dark interface, the audio cutting out with a soft chime. For a second the screen went black enough to catch Riley’s faint reflection—tired eyes, stiff posture—then the Starfleet delta shimmered into view at center display, crisp and familiar, like connection terminated stamped with authority.