03-02-2026, 10:29 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-02-2026, 10:31 AM by Riley Wright.)
Riley did not immediately relax at the humor — but this time, it reached her. For half a second she pictured it clearly: an angry Nausicaan twice her height, tusks bared, tables overturned, a betting pool forming somewhere in the background. The image was absurd enough to fracture the tension she had carried into the room.
The corner of her mouth lifted before she could stop it.
“No, sir,” she replied evenly, though the rigidity had eased from her voice. “If I were about to wrestle an angry Nausicaan, I would have stretched first.”
The dryness was deliberate, but no longer brittle. It carried familiarity now — the kind that came from having already stood in crisis with this crew instead of merely reporting to them. “I’m not reckless,” she added lightly, allowing a faint trace of humor to remain.
When instructed, she moved toward her assigned seat without hesitation. She had registered its placement the moment she entered — not within the command apex, but not peripheral either. It was intentional. She pulled the chair back and sat, posture straight but no longer braced, hands resting naturally atop the table instead of locked behind her back like a cadet awaiting formal evaluation.
“I’ll admit,” she continued, tone honest rather than defensive, “being recalled into a senior officer briefing a week after our last mission left room for interpretation.”
A quiet breath followed.
“We did lose someone.”
She did not qualify it. She did not soften it. Tomer had arrived as a VIP under their protection. Whatever he had become later did not erase that fact.
I lost him.
The thought was controlled now — no longer sharp, but still present.
“I’ve replayed my decisions more than once,” she said, her voice steady and open. “So yes, I considered the possibility that I was here to answer for that.”
There was no self-pity in the admission. Only accountability.
Her gaze met Jensen’s directly, respectful but no longer guarded. “If I’m here to contribute, sir, I’m ready. And if there’s something I need to correct, I’d rather address it directly.”
The warmth remained in her expression — not flippant, not overly familiar — but genuine. She had served with this crew. She had fought beside them. She had felt the cost of that mission in a way that was no longer theoretical.
She had taken her seat not as a Midshipman awaiting judgment, but as a junior officer who had already learned that command decisions carried weight — and intended to carry it properly.
The corner of her mouth lifted before she could stop it.
“No, sir,” she replied evenly, though the rigidity had eased from her voice. “If I were about to wrestle an angry Nausicaan, I would have stretched first.”
The dryness was deliberate, but no longer brittle. It carried familiarity now — the kind that came from having already stood in crisis with this crew instead of merely reporting to them. “I’m not reckless,” she added lightly, allowing a faint trace of humor to remain.
When instructed, she moved toward her assigned seat without hesitation. She had registered its placement the moment she entered — not within the command apex, but not peripheral either. It was intentional. She pulled the chair back and sat, posture straight but no longer braced, hands resting naturally atop the table instead of locked behind her back like a cadet awaiting formal evaluation.
“I’ll admit,” she continued, tone honest rather than defensive, “being recalled into a senior officer briefing a week after our last mission left room for interpretation.”
A quiet breath followed.
“We did lose someone.”
She did not qualify it. She did not soften it. Tomer had arrived as a VIP under their protection. Whatever he had become later did not erase that fact.
I lost him.
The thought was controlled now — no longer sharp, but still present.
“I’ve replayed my decisions more than once,” she said, her voice steady and open. “So yes, I considered the possibility that I was here to answer for that.”
There was no self-pity in the admission. Only accountability.
Her gaze met Jensen’s directly, respectful but no longer guarded. “If I’m here to contribute, sir, I’m ready. And if there’s something I need to correct, I’d rather address it directly.”
The warmth remained in her expression — not flippant, not overly familiar — but genuine. She had served with this crew. She had fought beside them. She had felt the cost of that mission in a way that was no longer theoretical.
She had taken her seat not as a Midshipman awaiting judgment, but as a junior officer who had already learned that command decisions carried weight — and intended to carry it properly.