Posted by Lieutenant Junior Grade Samuel Andrew McIntyre (CNS) in MAIN SIM- SIDE SIM
The USS Chimera
Deck 33 – Crew Lounge
Main Sim – 0615 Hours
The low hum of the ship’s systems blended with the faint clatter of utensils and quiet conversation, the early shift already settling into its routine. The crew lounge lighting was dimmed to a soft morning hue—simulated dawn, calibrated to ease the transition from sleep cycle to duty rotation.
The doors parted with a pneumatic whisper as Sam stepped in, data pad already in hand.
He didn’t waste time.
Crossing to the replicator with the kind of familiarity that came from long service, he issued his order in a steady, practiced tone:
“Black coffee. Steak, medium rare. Fried potatoes. Scrambled eggs. French toast.”
A brief pause—then the soft shimmer of matter assembly.
The tray materialized, steam rising in thin curls from the coffee and the freshly prepared meal. The smell was immediate—rich, grounding, almost old-fashioned in a way Starfleet rarely allowed itself to be.
Sam took the tray without hesitation.
No lingering. No small talk.
He scanned the room once—habit, not curiosity—before selecting a table off to the side. Good sightlines. Minimal foot traffic. A place where he could think.
He sat, set the tray down, and activated his data pad in one smooth motion.
The mission file came up instantly.
Reports. Sensor logs. Tactical projections. Psychological profiles.
He started reading.
Fork in one hand, pad in the other, he cut into the steak—precise, efficient—barely looking down as he brought the first bite up. His attention stayed on the screen, eyes tracking line after line of information, processing, filtering, assessing.
The coffee came next. Black, no hesitation. A tool, not a luxury.
Around him, the lounge continued its quiet rhythm—crew rotating in and out, conversations rising and falling—but none of it touched him. He was already somewhere else.
In the data.
In the mission.
In the problem ahead.
By the time most of the crew would fully wake up, Sam was already working the angles—turning over possibilities, identifying weaknesses, building a picture of what they were about to face.
Breakfast wasn’t a break.
It was preparation.

Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chimera

Areia yawned softly as she stepped into the Crew Lounge, a PADD tucked securely under her arm. She was dressed neatly, uniform pressed and proper, her long red hair pulled back into a tight braid that rested between her shoulders. Despite her composed appearance, there was no hiding the faint shadows under her green eyes or the subtle sluggishness in her movements—she either had just woken up or, more likely, hadn’t slept much at all.
The soft, ambient lighting in the lounge was a quiet blessing. No harsh lighting, no glaring brightness—just a gentle glow that made early mornings a little more bearable. It matched the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of utensils, creating a calm, lived-in atmosphere.
She spotted a couple of Ensigns gathered near one of the tables and veered slightly toward them. “Morning,” she greeted, her voice warm despite the lingering fatigue. They returned the greeting, and within moments she found herself pulled into a brief exchange. Someone cracked a joke about the cruelty of early duty shifts, and Areia let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“I think whoever scheduled early shifts has a personal vendetta against sleep,” she replied lightly, earning a few chuckles. The ease of the interaction came naturally to her. Unlike her brother, who preferred to linger on the edges of rooms and conversations, Areia thrived in them. After growing up surrounded by stiff, overly formal company, she found comfort in these small, genuine exchanges—the kind that didn’t require pretense or careful wording.
She lingered only a moment longer before giving them a small wave. “Try not to fall asleep on duty,” she teased as they began to disperse, heading off to their assignments.
Turning toward the replicator, she paused, considering the options for a brief second. It was a habit more than an actual debate—she already knew what she was going to order.
“Small plate of eggs, bacon, and coffee. Black.”
The familiar hum of the replicator followed, and she collected the tray once it materialized. It was the same breakfast she had every morning. She had, on occasion, thought about changing it—trying something new, something less routine—but today wasn’t the day for experimentation. There was too much on her mind, too much waiting on that PADD under her arm. Predictability, at least in breakfast, was one less thing to think about.
She scanned the room briefly before making her way to a nearby table, settling into a seat not far from McIntyre. She gave him a brief glance of acknowledgment but didn’t interrupt—he looked busy, and she had no intention of adding to that. Besides, she had her own workload to contend with.
Sliding the tray in front of her, she picked up her PADD and immediately dove back in. Lines of text filled the screen—organized, precise, but still in need of refinement. She had been up late the night before working on it, and the hours of lost sleep were beginning to make themselves known.
A mass casualty response plan.
Two, technically.
One for onboard emergencies—hull breaches, system failures, internal disasters. The other for off-ship scenarios—planetary incidents, evacuation efforts, situations where Starfleet resources were limited or delayed. It was the kind of preparation that should have already been finalized before departure, and the fact that it wasn’t still bothered her more than she cared to admit.
She prided herself on being thorough. On being ready.
And this? This had slipped.
Her jaw tightened slightly as she reviewed a section, making a quick adjustment with a flick of her fingers. Should’ve had this done sooner, she thought, not for the first time.
She exhaled slowly, leaning back just enough to rub the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the tension building there. Then, almost absently, she reached for a piece of bacon, taking a bite before chasing it with a small sip of her coffee. The bitterness grounded her, sharpened her focus just a little.
Her eyes dropped back to the screen.
Triage flow, staffing rotations, emergency transport logistics… it was all there, nearly complete. Just a few more refinements, a few more contingencies to account for.
She straightened slightly, determination settling back into place as she resumed her work, the quiet rhythm of the lounge fading into the background while her focus narrowed entirely to the task in front of her.

Areiana Blackford
Lieutenant Junior Grade Chief Medical Officer USS Chimera