Deck 8. Transporter Room 2

The transporter beam dissolved with a whisper of starlight—brief, bright, and unapologetically theatrical. As the last golden particles faded from the air, he stood there, perfectly still in the moment between arrival and impact.

White robes fell around him in elegant folds, trimmed in gleaming gold, subtly enchanted by micro-field generators that gave the impression of drifting, dancing fabric. Not quite floating, but certainly not burdened by gravity like the rest of us. His bald head caught the ambient light with effortless dignity. Every finger bore a ring—gold, delicate, deliberate. His ankles whispered secrets against the polished floor. Rollin—formerly of the USS Apollo, once adored on Oed V, still banned (technically) from three nightclubs on Risa—had stepped aboard the USS Athena.

He took in the transporter room with a slow turn of the head, like a stage actor appraising his first audience of the evening.

“A goddess of wisdom, strategy, and art,” he mused aloud, to no one in particular and yet to everyone who might ever read the ship’s logs. “Frankly, it’s outrageous they didn’t post me here sooner.”

And then he moved.

Rollin stepped off the pad with the fluid grace of someone who had never once hurried—and never once been late. His entrance was measured, as though time itself had paused to see how he’d use it.

He cast a long glance around the transporter room, taking in the sleek consoles, the hum of systems, the crew’s mild confusion at whatever this was.

He offered the transporter chief a smile so warm and layered it could’ve started its own diplomatic summit. Then, without waiting for clearance or conversation, he turned and glided from the room like a priest leaving a sermon he already knew by heart.

Deck 17/18 - Forward Lounge

The turbolift doors parted like stage curtains. Rollin stepped into the lounge, and for a long, rare moment—he didn’t say a word.

The space stretched upward and forward in twin arcs of light and shadow. Twin decks wrapped around each other in soft curves, with tiered seating, glass-paneled rails, and a vast spread of windows that opened directly onto the stars. The front hull of the Athena—sleek and noble—seemed to vanish into open space. The stars weren’t a backdrop here. They were the performance.

Sunken couches nestled into quiet alcoves. Low lighting danced across bottles behind the bar, casting jeweled glows in quiet corners. A mezzanine curled above like a balcony designed for whispered secrets and stolen glances. And in the corner? A polished baby grand piano, untouched but waiting, like a patient lover.

Rollin exhaled slowly. Not for effect this time. Just to make space in his chest for the sight before him.

“Oh… my lady Athena,” he murmured, with the awe of a pilgrim entering a shrine. “You exquisite, overachieving queen. You’ve built me a cathedral.”

He descended the main staircase one slow step at a time, fingers brushing the polished rail. He crossed to the bar and laid a hand on its surface—solid, real, promising.

“Two decks. Forward-facing. A piano. Blessedly beige-free. This isn’t just a lounge, it’s a consecrated space. This—” he spun, gesturing grandly to the empty mezzanine “—is where we break routine. This is where we remember who we are when the uniform comes off.”

He smiled to himself, his eyes sparkling—already envisioning the trysts, intrigues, and confessions yet to unfold. “Oh, we are going to do such terrible things to loneliness in this room.”

He straightened, clapped his hands once—sharp, decisive—and turned to address the empty lounge like it was already full.

“From this moment forward, this room is to be known as The Temple.”
“Not because it is sacred…” he paused, smile softening, “but because every soul aboard this ship deserves to be worshipped—if only for a moment, and preferably with excellent lighting.”

His reflection shimmered in the window beside him—solitary, still. For a second, he met his own gaze. A flicker of something old and private crossed his face.

“To explore the stars without joy is to travel blind,” he whispered, just to the stars themselves.

Then, with a swish of fabric and a subtle shift back into performance, he disappeared behind the bar.

-Rollin
Just Rollin. That’s quite enough, Darling.