0719 hours — Crew Lounge, Deck 12
The doors parted with a soft hydraulic whisper as Lieutenant Junior Grade Samuel McIntyre stepped into the lounge, already alive with the low murmur of an early-duty shift. A few officers lingered over their padds and half-finished meals, but the atmosphere remained subdued—professional, and focused. The way mornings were meant to be.
McIntyre moved with purpose, uniform squared away, posture straight despite the early hour. No hesitation, no wasted motion. He approached the replicator station, keyed in his order without looking down—routine already etched into muscle memory.
“Black coffee. Steak, medium rare. Scrambled eggs. Hashbrowns.”
The replicator chirped in acknowledgment. A moment later, the tray materialized in a shimmer of light—steam rising off the plate, the sharp, familiar aroma of coffee cutting through the recycled air.
He picked up the tray and turned, scanning the room once. Not for company—never that—but for awareness. Habit. Situational control. Finding a table along the viewport, he set the tray down and took his seat with quiet precision.
Outside, the stars stretched endlessly, indifferent.
Inside, McIntyre wrapped his hand around the coffee mug, letting the heat settle into his grip before taking a measured sip. No sugar. No cream. The way it should be.
He cut into the steak next—clean, efficient. No rush, but no lingering either. This wasn’t leisure. It was preparation.
Another day aboard Chimera.
Another set of decisions waiting to be made.

Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chimera