The USS Chimera
Deck 33 → Deck 12
0615–0635 Hours
Sam didn’t wait for an answer.
That was his way.
He let the question hang—deliberate, unresolved—before finishing the last of his coffee in a single measured sip. The cup settled back onto the tray with a soft, controlled sound. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
His eyes dropped to the PADD one final time, scanning the last lines of data. Commit to memory. Cross-reference later. Nothing left in this environment that required his attention.
He stood.
“Don’t burn the candle at both ends,” he said evenly, not looking back at Areia as he gathered his things. “It catches up.”
Not advice. Not quite an order.
A statement of fact.
With that, he turned and moved for the exit. The doors parted on cue, swallowing him back into the corridor as the quiet murmur of the lounge faded behind him.
Deck 12 – Command Offices
0635 Hours
The corridors here were different.
Quieter. More controlled. Less traffic, more purpose. Officers moved with intent, conversations clipped and efficient. This was where decisions were made—not discussed.
Sam walked through it like he belonged there.
Because he did.
His office door recognized him instantly. A soft chime, then it slid open.
Inside, everything was exactly as he left it.
Minimal.
Functional.
A desk positioned to face the viewport, where the slow drift of stars painted a constant, silent backdrop. No clutter. No unnecessary personalization. Just a few secured data terminals, a secondary display console, and a neatly arranged set of mission files queued for review.
He stepped in, and the doors closed behind him with a muted hiss.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
He just stood there, looking out at the stars.
Then—
“Computer, status update. Current mission parameters.”
The system responded instantly, the calm, neutral voice filling the room.
“USS Chimera is maintaining assigned course and speed. All primary systems operating within normal parameters. No new priority alerts.”
Sam nodded once.
As expected.
He crossed to his desk, set the PADD down, and activated the main display. The mission data expanded across the screen—clean, organized, ready.
This was his environment.
Control. Clarity. Structure.
He sat.
Hands folded briefly in front of him, eyes scanning the information with renewed focus. No distractions now. No ambient noise. Just the work.
After a beat, he keyed in a command.
“Flag medical preparedness protocols for review.”
A brief pause.
“Priority: elevated.”
If Areia was losing sleep over it, there was a reason.
And if there was a reason—
It became his problem.
Sam leaned back slightly, already moving on to the next layer of analysis, the quiet hum of the ship settling in around him as the day officially began.

Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chime