Posted by Lieutenant Commander Faye Calloway (Chief Intelligence Officer) in Introducing Rollin, Lounge Host Extraordinaire

Posted by Civilian Rollin (Lounge Host) in Introducing Rollin, Lounge Host Extraordinaire

Posted by Lieutenant Commander Faye Calloway (Chief Intelligence Officer) in Introducing Rollin, Lounge Host Extraordinaire
Posted by… suppressed (3) by the Post Ghost! 👻
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.

No new crew member escaped Faye’s notice, even if they were a junior officer or non-com on the lower decks. Now, they might not realize that they even rated notice from the Chief Intelligence Officer, but Calloway made it a point to at least skim every single transfer file that the ship received. That might sound like a daunting task for most, but Faye’s brain relished taking in information and it almost became a game to see how much she could truly take in how little time. Some days she rather impressed herself, but on others, if her focus was off, she’s have to slow down and admit defeat.

She didn’t bother hiding her role and swas in her duty uniform, with her hair in a tidy French braid. She strolled into the lounge like she was on a mission and simply went up to the bar, slid on a stool and folded her arms on the table. Her stormy grey-green eyes took in everything and missed little.

~Faye Calloway, CIO

The bar had only just begun to feel his weight behind it when she entered—measured, composed, intentional.

Rollin’s eyes flicked up before his head did. Stormy grey-green. Efficient posture. French braid coiled as neatly as the quiet confidence she wore in place of armor.

He didn’t need a file. He knew the scent of watchfulness when it crossed a threshold.

He leaned ever so slightly forward, not in deference, but in interest—like someone peering over a piano just before beginning a song.

“Well, well…” he said, drawing the phrase out like ribbon through a hand. “The goddess sends me an oracle on my very first day.”

Her eyebrows arched as she took him in, her multi-tangential brain doing its thing- gathering, sorting, analyzing. She tilted her head slightly. “Huh, that’s a new one.”

He reached for a glass—not replicated, of course, real crystal, recently arranged—and placed it gently on the bar in front of her.

“You must be Faye Calloway,” he said, not as a question, but as a gift unwrapped slowly. “Storm eyes, intelligence, the kind of composure that makes grown admirals forget their passwords. I’ve heard of you.”

“Was there cursing involved?” she asked, and it was hard to know if she was serious or not. With Faye, cursing might very well have been the case, but not always.

He smiled—not smugly, but with warmth so practiced it felt effortless.

“Welcome to The Temple. Drinks optional. Revelations inevitable.”

Faye blinked. “You changed the name… but I like it. Do expect the crew to do a double take though. But you kept the piano. That’s appreciated.”

He folded his arms lightly along the bar, mirroring her without mocking.

“So, my dear oracle…” he said, voice dropping just enough to make it feel private, “what message do you bring me?”

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

She mirrored him, leaning forward a bit. “No message, yet. Though…” Her gazed shifted of to the side of him, momentarily unfocused as she went through several points of interest. When she shifted her gaze back, amusement touched her eyes and lips. “I like to have a rapport with those that work in the lounge. You hear info, I gather info. People might think that makes me nosy, but honestly I couldn’t care less about who’s dating whom, and or who is in a argument with which department head. Well, most of the time. But I care about this ship, and the crew as a whole. I’m very adverse to harm coming to my home, which depending on how much you’ve actually heard about me should make sense to someone with your career background.” Calloway leaned in even farther and whispered. “And fun fact, contrary to popular belief I don’t dislike therapists. Mine just find themselves challenged.”

Sitting back to her usual upright posture, it was clear that Faye had excellent fine control over her body, holding her core precisely where she needed her body to be. Reaching out, she tapped the nail of index finger finger on the crystal. “If you’re interested in a conversation, I am curious what sort of interesting non-alcoholic drinks you might conjure up. I’m sober,” she said simply.

~Faye Calloway, CIO

Rollin’s fingers fluttered to his chest, as if physically touched by her whispered confession.

“Challenged therapists? My favorite kind of bedtime reading,” he murmured, with just enough breath to make it sound conspiratorial rather than cheeky.

“Dude, you have no idea,” Faye said seriously, though inwardly she was amused at what he would make of her full file. Janna had commented on the extensive time it had taken her to fully read through it all. Not every therapist might take such detailed care, but Kingston had. It had been an instant point in her favour.

He studied her—not the way one sizes up a threat, but the way a master tailor examines a bolt of impossibly rare fabric. Rich texture. Clean lines. Unapologetic.

When she tapped the glass, he straightened, the movement as fluid as water finding its level.

“Sober,” he echoed with gentle reverence, as if the word itself held weight. “Then we begin with truth. No distractions. No ethanol illusions.”

Calloway snorted. Illusions. Yes. When she and alcohol had a mismatched pairing she could perhaps say she had been under an illusion. Mostly that she would somehow feel better if she could just stop her brain from thinking so damn hard all the time. It had always gone poorly and hurt not just herself but others as well. Hence her sober status these days even though she knew she could handle small amounts just fine. The boundary remaining in place felt safer for everyone.

He turned, the hem of his long, ivory-gold robe catching a soft current from the environmental controls. His hands moved with theatrical ease over the vintage mixology station behind the bar—not a replicator in sight. He selected a small earthen bottle, a sliver of crystal bark, and a vial that shimmered in the low light like melted nebula.

“Allow me to introduce you,” he said, “to a concoction I call the Stardust Accord.”

As he poured, the drink took shape—pale blue with silver flecks, lightly effervescent, finished with a sliver of dehydrated pear and a twist of something floral.

Faye watched with all the intensity of someone who rarely forgot things she saw- a boon and a burden. A head tilt here, a slight lean there, she absorbed as much as she could about the drink he was making as well as the man himself. The care, precision. Yes, for all the fluttering about and stuff, there was intention behind his every gesture and word. Nothing wasted, everything sincere. She liked that about him. Others might see the flamboyance as a shield, and maybe it was to an extent (Janna was probably the better one to sort out that concept), but Faye, in her socially awkward and non-intuitive being, could only see his brightness as simply Rollin. Unapologetic. She was better at being exactly herself, but for all her growth and practice she was still an apprentice and he, clearly, the Grand Master.

“It’s a blend of lunar-pressed citrus, elderflower distillate, microcarbonated cloudberry infusion, and one very smug garnish from a Betazoid monastery garden.”

He slid the drink toward her, eyes never leaving hers.

“No alcohol. No lies. Just a little sparkle. Like you.”

Faye snorted again and shook her head. “If we were doing alcohol, it would be a lot of whiskey. Neat.” Still, she eyed the drink with curiosity.

Then, with a soft chuckle: “And for the record, I adore double takes. They’re the universe’s way of saying, ‘Look again. You missed something beautiful.’”

He folded his hands beneath his chin, elbows on the bar, as if preparing for worship.

“The Temple isn’t just a lounge. It’s a little act of rebellion. A reminder that even out here in the void, there’s still beauty, and mischief, and… possibility.”

He raised his hands theatrically. “And me, of course. But that goes without saying

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

Lifting the glass to her lips, that first sip was almost intoxicating. It was subtle and bold all at once. One could say the same thing about her. She tended towards either not being clear enough or bashing people over the heads with her point. Middle grounds were not her forté. Still, as the sip slipped down her throat, Faye smiled softly. “Alright, pretty darn good. Definitely not boring, if more… sparkle than I’m used to. But I’ve been told it’s good for me to shake things up.” She lifted her brows. “I’m not great with change.”

Casting her gaze about the temple (formerly the Parthenon), she felt a quietness overtake her, especially as the stars streaked by. When she looked back at Rollin’, there was no bravado, just a matter-of-fact honesty. “I could have used someone like you around back in my freighter days. But I suspect you would have seen too much, seen right through me, and that would have scared me off. Still, it’s an interesting idea to mull over. What persons had they shown up at a different times in our lives would have altered our paths so drastically that our current present would not have happened?”

~Faye Calloway, CIO

He watched her sip—watched the flicker of surprise, the smile that followed, the subtle shift as something inside her unclenched. It wasn’t just the drink—it was the atmosphere, the invitation, the sense that someone had lit a candle in the dark and left the door open.

When she spoke—plain, honest, beautifully unvarnished—Rollin didn’t deflect. He didn’t dazzle. He simply was, and for a rare moment, the sparkle stepped aside.

He swirled his own glass slowly, silver flecks catching the ambient light.

“You know,” he said, voice soft but certain, “I’ve spent time on freighters, too.”

He let it linger. Watched her take that in. Watched her wonder.

“Not in a jumpsuit, heavens no. I didn’t work the freighters so much as…” His eyes danced, lips parting in a slow, decadent smile. “Let’s just say I was often a welcome distraction on long, lonely routes.”

He leaned in slightly, his tone shifting from playful to genuine.

“I learned a lot in those years. About people. About the quiet ache of isolation. About how badly we all want to be seen.”

And then, softer still:

“But back then, I wasn’t this.” A gesture to the robes, the rings, the radiance. “I hadn’t figured out how to be… Rollin, yet. Not really.”

He tapped the bar lightly with one ringed finger, each sound precise.

“I didn’t always shine, Faye. I learned how to. Because the world didn’t do it for me.”

Then, smiling faintly:

“Which is why I think we’re here. Both of us. Now.”

He let the silence stretch—not awkward, not tense. Just… honest.

Then his voice lightened, warmed again, but didn’t lose its depth.

“Timing’s a funny thing. A breath too soon, a blink too late, and we miss a connection that might’ve changed everything. But when the stars line up—really line up—someone shows up exactly when you’re ready to meet them.”

He raised his glass slightly in her direction.

“So here we are. You, the watchful storm. Me, the unapologetic sparkle.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Neither of us too early. Neither too late.”

Then, gently:

“To this version of us. The one that did meet.”

And he took a sip. As if sealing the accord.

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