Sickbay doors parted with a brisk, efficient chime.

Nala stepped through and immediately felt the difference.

The Ark Angel wasn’t quieter here.

It was busy.

The deep structural hum of the ship was still present, but layered over it now were sharper sounds: diagnostic tones chiming in uneven rhythms, biobeds cycling through readiness checks, carts rolling across the deck with soft but constant vibration. Voices overlapped not loud, but numerous, clipped and professional and moving too quickly for her ears to fully separate.

Her ears flattened partway on instinct.

Different loud, she registered. Not better. Just… narrower. More focused. No place for sound to dissipate.

She adjusted her stance, grounding through her feet, claws flexing subtly inside her boots. The air smelled clean, sterile, edged with antiseptic and recycled oxygen. Too crisp. Too precise.

She approached the duty station, posture straight, tail carefully controlled.

“Ensign Nala Shai’Mori t’Liriena,” she said, voice fast but steady. “Here for my intake physical.”

The nurse glanced up, nodded once, and tapped something into a console.

“Have a seat. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”

Then they were already moving heels clicking away, voice joining another conversation before Nala could even respond.

She blinked once.

“…Thank you,” she said to empty air, then turned and did as instructed.

The waiting area was functional. Clean. Bright. Too bright.

She chose a seat at the edge rather than the center, positioning herself so she could see the room without being surrounded by it. Her tail curled tightly around her leg, ears angled back not flat, just guarded.

Minutes passed.

A biobed chimed. Someone laughed softly somewhere behind a curtain. A monitor emitted a sharp alert tone before being silenced almost immediately. Each sound landed cleanly, distinctly, without blending no mercy for senses that noticed everything.

Nala focused on her breathing.

In.
Out.
Count the rhythm.

She kept her gaze fixed on a point along the far bulkhead, refusing to let her attention scatter. Her tail flicked once, sharp, then stilled again. She clasped her hands together, claws pressing lightly into her own skin just enough sensation to anchor her.

You’re fine, she told herself. This is routine. This is controlled. This is survivable.

Her leg bounced once before she consciously stopped it.

She didn’t look at the time.

She didn’t pace.

She waited.

And beneath the professional calm she maintained, the ship continued to hum and chime and whisper around her testing her limits without yet demanding she cross them.

ensign Nala