YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters

[Paul]

==
Captain's Quarters: 
The Captain's quarters consists of a large sitting/living area, with a desk and built-in terminal, dining table with seating for four on the right, a large couch beneath the viewports, and a pair of recliner chairs on the left. To the right of the living area is a small kitchen and pantry, with a replicator and appliances to make "home grown" food. To the left of the living area is the bedroom, containing a King-sized bed, and the bathroom which includes the standard amenities (toilet, sink, sonic shower) and a full bath.

Senior Officer's Quarters (FO/DH/COB):
Senior Officers quarters consist of a living area featuring a desk and terminal, replicator, dining table with seating for four, and a coffee table with two to four chairs. The bedroom is off the living space, with Senior Officers' having access to twin beds which can be exchanged for a double if the officer's spouse is aboard. Off the bedroom is the bathroom, including standard amenities (toilet, sink, sonic shower).

Junior Officer's/Enlisted Quarters:
Junior Officers and Enlisted personnel live in shared accommodation. Quarters consist of a living area with desk, couch, a replicator station, and bunks. Junior Officers and Petty Officers sleep two per cabin, Junior Enlisted sleep four. Bathroom facilities are limited, including a pop-out toilet and sink, and a sonic shower.
==

[Riley Wright]

== 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 ==

[Riley Wright]

Riley didn’t breathe out until she heard that one word. Practical. It was the closest Torres ever came to comfort.

He lifted one hand slightly, counting without theatrics.

[First: I want five bullet points. Not a novel. Five. What you knew at the time. What you assumed. What you did. What you should do differently next time with the same information.]

Riley frowned. “With the same information.”

[Yes,] Torres said. [Not with what you learned later. Not with hindsight. With what you actually had in your hands then.]

Her jaw tightened—because it meant she couldn’t rewrite the night into a version where she was always smarter, faster, and a step ahead. It meant she had to look at who she’d been in the moment, not who she wanted to be now.

Riley nodded once. “Okay.”

[Second,] Torres continued, [you’re scared this is going to make you hesitate next time.]

The words put a finger on the bruise. Riley didn’t deny it, because denial was what she’d been doing for days.

[Good,] Torres said. [That fear has teeth. You just don’t let it drive. You solve hesitation by pre-loading your decision tree.]

Riley blinked. “My… decision tree.”

[Yes,] Torres replied, like she’d asked what gravity was. [When you’re given escort duty on someone flagged as a risk, you don’t improvise your control plan mid-walk. You set conditions up front. Where you position yourself. What counts as a break in compliance. What you do if they stop, if they run, if a door closes, if you lose line-of-sight. You make those decisions before you’re jogging to catch up.]

Heat crept into Riley’s face and she hated it, because it wasn’t humiliation—it was recognition. There were pieces of that she’d never locked down ahead of time. She’d relied on instincts and training and momentum and told herself that was enough.

[That’s not paranoia,] Torres added. [That’s preparation.]

Riley stared at him through the monitor, then let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I don’t want comfort,” she said, quieter. “I don’t want someone to tell me it’s fine.”

[Comfort is cheap,] Torres said. [Anyone can give you comfort.]

Riley’s jaw set. “I want to know how you carry it. When you screw up early. When it matters.” Her voice roughened, just a little. “Because I don’t know how to hold this without it digging in. Without it turning into fear the next time someone puts responsibility in my hands.”

Torres didn’t soften. But his tone shifted—less instructor, more real.

[Here’s the line you asked for,] he said. [You own your decisions, and you document your lessons. You do not own outcomes you did not control.]

Riley’s throat tightened, and for a second she almost let herself believe that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

== TBC ==

[Riley Wright]

“It’s not just losing him,” Riley said. The words came slow, like she had to haul them up by hand. “It’s… I didn’t keep him safe.”

Once it existed, the sentence felt ugly. Worse because it was true.

Her eyes slipped off the camera—half a second to flinch, to hate herself for needing this—then snapped back. “You told me—over and over—that Security protects life. It doesn’t matter if they’re good or evil, or if you like them, or if they deserve it. We protect life.”

Her hands were knotted in her lap. She could feel her nails through her own skin. “And I keep hearing that in my head. I keep thinking that if I’d done my job right… he wouldn’t have been alone out there.”

Torres held her through the screen for a long beat.

[You’re right about the principle,] he said. [Security protects life. All life. The person you don’t trust. The person who might be trying to hurt you.]

Riley’s stomach tightened.

[But protecting life isn’t the same as guaranteeing safety,] Torres continued. [It means you make choices that reduce harm while preserving the mission and the people around you. It means you don’t let anger—or fear—or pride—turn you into another weapon in the room.]

Riley didn’t move. She listened hard enough that her jaw started to ache, and the ache was the point—because she could name exactly where those three things had been in her hands that night, even while she called it “professional.”

“To be fair,” she said, and it sounded like an excuse the second it left her mouth.

She didn’t let herself retreat from it. “Protecting Tomer’s life… wasn’t my priority.”

This time she held the camera’s gaze like it was a punishment she’d earned. “Not until it looked like he might already be dead. Before that I was thinking containment. Risk. Control. Keep him from hurting someone else.”

Keep him from hurting us.

“And then it shifted,” she added, voice rough. “The second it felt real—like we’d lost him, like he’d bled out in some accessway—I couldn’t stop thinking about how alone he would’ve been. How that would’ve happened on my watch.”

Torres stayed quiet long enough for her to hear her own pulse in her fingertips.

[Good,] he said at last. [That’s honest.]

Riley blinked, thrown by that being the first thing he offered her.

[Now listen closely,] Torres said. [What you just described is the trap. You treated him like a problem to manage until the cost of failure became a body.]

Her throat tightened. Because it fit. Because it was clean and merciless and correct.

[Security protects life,] Torres went on, steady. [That doesn’t mean you stop seeing threats. It means you hold two truths at the same time: someone can be dangerous, and someone can still be your responsibility.]

Riley’s fingers tightened together until her knuckles went pale.

[If you wait to care about their life until they’re dying, you’re already late,] Torres said. [Not morally. Operationally. Because the moment you stop accounting for their survival, you start making choices that raise the odds of exactly that outcome. Escalation. Corners. Panic.]

Riley drew a slow breath, forcing it down into her ribs. She’d come here for practical. This was practical. It just hurt like hell.

“How do I fix it?” she asked. “Not… the past. I mean the next time.”

Torres didn’t hesitate.

[You write two plans,] he said. [One for the suspect as a threat. One for the suspect as a life. And you execute both at the same time.]

Riley stared at him.

[Containment and preservation,] he clarified. [Positioning that protects your team and keeps them alive. Procedures that keep the suspect from disappearing—and keep them from getting killed because you treated them like disposable cargo.]

Something in Riley’s jaw set. Not softer. Straighter.

Two truths. Same time.

Torres watched her for a beat, then his expression changed—subtle, but she felt it anyway.

[Now answer my earlier question,] he said. [Which part is eating you alive—losing him physically… or realizing you didn’t start treating his life as part of the mission until it looked like you’d already lost it?]

== TBC ==

[Riley Wright]

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.

[Jennifer Braggins]

==One week following mission end.==

Jenny bounced in her chair eagerly as the figures on the monitor moved closer to their goal, red-uniformed and in textbook formation, they raced towards their foe seemingly undaunted by the odds stacked against them. 

Come on...just a few more meters...

Seemingly out of nowhere, a black-uniformed figure emerged and split the formation in two. Robbed of their momentum, the red-uniforms scattered and allowed more black-uniforms through the gap, speeding towards their own objective.

A vindictive yet not-unfriendly chuckle sounded from the couch on the other side of the table as the black-uniformed team expertly navigated the defenses of the red team and slammed the hockey puck home. Jenny threw herself back into the chair, scowling, the action sending popcorn scattering all over the place.

"I told you the Sehlats were going to cinch it in overtime. The Academy team have the passion and talent, but the Vulcans are stronger and faster, and waited for the Cadets to get tired."

Still scowling Jenny half-heartedly hurled a handful of popcorn at the other woman. Dark hair turning to grey, Master Chief Petty Officer Jenna Bartlett was the closest thing Jenny had to an actual friend aboard, and their mutual love of contact sports had led them to place a rather hefty water on the outcome of the Starfleet Academy vs Shi'Kahr Sehlats game. 

A wager Jenny had just lost.

Jenny reached for the PADD to initiate the agreed-upon transfer, roughly one month of her princely salary, when it flashed an incoming transmission icon. It was listed as high priority, and Jenny shared a brief confused look with Jenna as she opened the message.

A quizzical expression turned to a frown, followed by widened eyes, before the frown returned with clenched fists. Grumbling under her breath, Jenny closed the message and tossed the PADD carelessly onto the chair.

"The Cardassians are blockading Starbase 214. They are claiming that the base is harbouring Talarian fugitives and are demanding they be turned over."

It was possible, Jenny knew, that the base did have Talarian freedom fighters aboard, as it was the first stop for Talarian refugees fleeing the expanding Cardassian occupation. For the Cardassians to be bold enough to blockade a Federation Starbase, however, led Jenny to believe there was more to it.

"We have been put on alert for Cardassian aggression. The Diplomatic Corps is trying to find a diplomatic solution."

The look Jenna flashed signalled that her own opinion of the career diplomats (most, not all) matched Jenny's, and that if this situation was resolved without bloodshed it would only be because the administration had caved.

"Recall the crew. I want senior staff in the briefing room within an hour. I want Wright there as well, she can be the lower deckers' spy for this briefing."

Jenny nodded, grabbed her things, and departed. Leaving the popcorn scattered on the floor and half-finished drinks containers where they were, Jenny left the cleanup to Raiju as she moved toward the shower.

It was going to be a long day.