Posted March 25, 2022, 9:07 a.m. by Commander Shara Calloway (Chief Intelligence Officer) (Lindsay B)
It was well after shift change but plenty of people were still up, including Shara. She knew she was treading a fine line between pushing through and falling apart, but she hadn’t made it to her sixth decade without at least some ability to batten the hatches as it were and get to the other side. She could fall apart later.
That senior staff meeting where their mission was laid out seemed ages ago, but her own words rang though her head. “But the rest of you? I’m not good at asking for help. But I’m asking you right now. I’ve not had a crew in a very long time. I have to remember what’s it like, but last I remember, a crew stands by each other. So, please, help me bring this man home, and help me get back to those I love.” This crew did seem to be coming together but it was a slow process. Much too slow. She didn’t know how to change that.
There was also the reality that they had to stop pretending to be playing at a game, and actually be in the game. She couldn’t make others do this part properly, but Calloway could certainly show them by example. It was time.
Gone was the casual off-duty clothes that left Shara approachable. Her reputation as an Intelligence officer alone made her dangerous, but she wanted her colleagues to feel the reality of that now. The cargo pants or plain trousers she usually favoured were replaced by black faux-leather leggings that stretched over her well toned lower-half. The turtle-necks and t-shirts she wore on top were now a jacket in a pale grey that hugged her lean body and flared out slightly over her hips, the collar encasing her neck. The sides were adorned with fabric manipulation that seemed to resemble ribs.
Dark makeup and her medium-brown hair in a sleek ponytail, she did wear her commbadge. She patted her uniform before hanging it up, stowing her pips. She wouldn’t need them for awhile. Nodding her own approval in the small mirror over her dresser, Shara grabbed her guitar (a striking contrast if ever there was one) and headed out.
The Lounge was not empty, but nor was it busy. She strutted in like she owned the place, picked a corner table and pulled a chair far out. She settled in, pulled out her guitar and, with a pick between her dark red lips, she propped her tall-heeled feet on the table, crossing them at the ankles, and began to tune her guitar. She was well aware of the looks thrown her way and the energy in the tiny lounge changed instantly. Good. She was doing her job right then. The Shara present was not the Shara the other senior staff had seen in the ready room. It was like two vastly different people. Just the way she preferred her ops.
Commander Calloway, CIO
© 1991-2024 STF. Terms of Service
Version 1.15.11
RSS Feed