[snip]

With the Space Station walkways fully extended and safely attached to the USS Merrimack, Captain John T. Glen left the ship and walked to the office of Admiral Stone. Deep Space K-5 had become familiar to the Captain and his crew as it had mostly worked out from it over the last few years. It wasn’t exactly home, but it did feel like a comfortable old shoe. Some of the lower decks smelled just like an old shoe too. Luckily, Stone’s office was on the higher decks, almost as high as you could reach, so John took a turbolift.

Glen’s communicator bleeped =/\= Sorry to interrupt you Captain ,I believe you shall meet with the Admiral? Could you mention that we had to use the jefferies tubes when the ship’s power went out. The turbo lifts weren’t working and maybe request that stairs should be build =/\= knowing that the Captain had been on the planet he was not aware of the injured crew ,especially the one who got injured in one of the tubes .

=/\= Not sure if there is room for steps, but we could have ladders retro-fitted, and I’ll ask about having the back-up battery power enhanced so that we don’t lose Artificial Gravity so quickly… but I have to go now, sorry =/\= Glen replied.

=/\= Thank you Captain =/\= Cross replied =/\= At least he didn’t bite my head off =/\= she didn’t realize that the communicator was still on.

Once outside his office, Glen pressed the door buzzer.

It took a few moments but the door finally swished open showing Admiral Stone’s standing at the door panel just to the side of the door.
“Welcome, Captain. Come on in.” He invited, one hand held out to invite Glen in.

The office carried the sleek, purposeful style Starfleet favored in the late 23rd century. The walls were paneled in smooth off-white with accents of bright crimson and muted gray, punctuated by glowing inset light panels that hummed faintly with power. The flooring was covered in Starfleet’s deep red carpeting, clean and sharply defined against the bright tones of the walls.

A wide curved viewport dominated one side, framed in brushed steel. Beyond it, the bustle of Starbase K-9 stretched outward — shuttlecraft darting between spindly docking pylons, Constitution-class starships held in berths, their saucers gleaming under floodlights. The stars beyond shimmered as if painted onto a velvet canvas, perfectly in keeping with the TOS aesthetic.

At the center of the room stood the Admiral’s desk: angular, functional, and adorned with blinking multicolored status lights in that distinctive TOS palette — amber, turquoise, red, and green. A pair of tape-style data recorders rested in neat stacks, alongside a framed holophoto of his Academy class and a small silver model of the USS Excalibur, his first command.

Behind the desk, the Federation emblem gleamed proudly on the wall, flanked by a dark blue Starfleet Command pennant trimmed with gold. Nearby shelves contained a mix of official record tapes and subtle personal artifacts: a brass telescope, a crystal award from the Federation Council, and a display case holding a ceremonial Klingon d’k tahg — a reminder of battles survived and treaties won.

The entire office felt like a stage: a place where a captain could be called to receive orders that carried the weight of the Federation — orders that would send them into the unknown.

Admiral Stone’s led the way to one side, a conversation nook provided space for less formal meetings: low, curved chairs upholstered in black leatherette around a glass-topped table. On a sideboard, a polished metal carafe of real Terran coffee waited beside the more impersonal replicator alcove.
“Coffee?” He asked moving toward the sideboard.

Glen could not help but to be impressed by the room’s decor, though he wondered if the Admiral was overcompensating for something else. He’d only heard rumours of the room’s decor before, and some of them had been quite scathing remarks. Personally, he didn’t think it looked anything like a professional wrestler’s dressing room. He was always impressed by someone who had a proper coffee machine and who roasted and ground their own beans. He remembered now that the Admiral had invited him to sample his coffee once before, so he wasted no time in saying, “yes, please!”

Stone smiled into understanding at the Captain’s quick response. “How do you take it?” He asked as he worked the machine and filled two cups in decent sized mugs. He was a man who lived and breathed coffee. No dainty cups for him.

GM Nosferatu
Your Darkest Nightmare

Glen hadn’t had any real coffee in years. He hadn’t had unreplicated cow’s milk for longer still. He liked his coffee well roasted and brewed strong, with just a little of a milk alternative, but he didn’t wish to put the Admiral to any trouble, and was quite sure that the Admiral didn’t keep any dairy farm animals on DS-K5, so he said, “Just as you are Sir! From that carafe with a little of that white creamer, thanks!”

• Glen, CO