Obsidian Command
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Posted on 04 Aug 2018 @ 5:08pm by

Mission: Character Development
Location: Ira's Quarters

“No… no, this will not do.”

Ira tapped her foot quickly on the carpet of her quarter’s common area. She had always found Starfleet’s fully furnished quarters to be quite cluttered. Too much furniture. This one was no different. Who was it this time? Who decided it was necessary to climb the Chain of Command in order to throw a fit that they needed to feel more ‘at home’ while working?

Letting out a long sigh, the woman bent down, securing her feet and rested her hands on the armrest of the loveseat. With a firm push she guided it towards her open door and onto the Promenade so it could be picked up by Ops and used in some other spoiled officer’s space. She repeated the action with the coffee table, the storage unit, and two of the common area chairs.

When she was finished, she wiped the beading sweat from her brow and looked around.

Much better.

All that was left was the large three-seated couch, her trusty brown trunk that replaced the coffee table, a small dining room table with two chairs, her computer desk and panel, and the large bed inside her bedroom with a single nightstand.

Ira moved her bionic arm across the top of the couch with a slow, methodical brush. She could have gone with a more realistic look when the Engineer designed it but decided against it. She wasn’t normal and never would be. She felt a certain pride in exposing the metal and wiring to the world. It was a reminder of the life she would never get to live again but it was also what kept her breathing for the past six months. Her work wasn’t done yet.

“Computer, what time is it?”

=/\= 0928 hours. =/\=

Ira looked down at her current clothing choice: a fitted black v-neck shirt, black fitted pants, and black workout shoes. Her straight brown hair fell loosely past her shoulders. She had plenty of time before her 1030 meeting with the Commander. It also didn’t hurt to get ready early.

Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, Ira looked deep at her crystal clear blue eyes and damp dark hair. She was a spitting image of her mother. Would her mother have loved her after all she had done the past ten years? Would her father have wanted to play chess with her today and sing his praises to his colleagues? These questions became less and less frequent the older she became. Her time in the hospital bed stirred them back up again.

The fresh uniform felt comforting against her skin. Her hair had been pinned into twists that held tight against her head. She ran the cold metal of her fingers against her cheek and fixed the black eyeliner that seemed to have smudged from the shower steam.


Ira let out one final breath before heading out to Command Ops. She kept her jaw strong, her shoulders back, and her head held high as she stepped through the crowds of unknowing civilians. They knew nothing of the woman that brushed past them. And if they did,
hvor forskellige ville de se på hende?

How different would they look at her?


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