Restless

Posted on Sat Jan 17th, 2026 @ 8:36am by Captain Cassandra Hawk

1,385 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Episode 1: A New Sheriff in Town
Location: Captain's Quarters/Promenade - Starbase Mojave

A glint of light reflected across the ceiling of Cassandra's bedroom, glinting off a vessel that was departing from some section of Mojave outside the window. Her awareness of this particular moment was a sure indicator of one thing: she wasn't asleep.

A long, frustrated sigh escaped her, as she rolled over to try to get back to sleep. She knew why she was awake, of course.

The images of her friend, Jol, lying there on the deck. The distant voice of Doctor T'Lari, a thousand miles away despite being next to her. Life signs fading. The Hina's alarm klaxon blaring, bathing the hallway in red. The crew, their Captain incapacitated, having just lost several of their friends, eyes on her. "Commander, what do we do?"

The dream was a memory, one of a few that would wake her in the night. She was, generally speaking, a sound sleeper. But every once in a while, her brain would deliver a fresh, unfiltered memory of one of the worst moments of her life. Watching the Utopia Planetia attack on the screen, so clear that she was able to pick out the exact moment that her mother's vessel was destroyed. The armed standoff with her own father, guns held at each other, and the moment her father actually pulled the trigger she couldn't. Jol Venn, her dear friend since the Academy and her main confidant during her time as the Hina's XO, lying on the floor lifeless, with the fate of Cassandra’s crew and the Federation at large still undetermined. She knew that this was probably something a Counselor would be very interested in knowing. She also knew there was very little chance she'd share it willingly.

Cassandra finally gave in and sat up, rolling her neck a little as she did. It was 0445. Very early, but it could have been much worse. Her room was dark, only lit by the stray light coming through the window to the outside. "Computer, lights, ambient only."

Lights throughout her quarters came to life, providing plenty light to see, but keeping the overall brightness down. After debating one last time if she did indeed want to try to go back to sleep, she set the thought aside and rose to her feet. If she wasn't going to sleep, she'd work off the impatience. For the past week, the idea of a morning run through the station's Promenade had appealed. The opportunity had finally presented itself.

Donning a dark wine-colored tank top, black slim-fitting pants, and a pair of running shoes, she tied her hair back into a simple pony, only slightly fussing about how it was settling in the mirror, before attaching her combadge to her top. The overall appearance was like an extremely casual version of her uniform. She logged her lack of personal and professional boundaries as another topic she'd likely not be discussing with a counselor. With one last look around the room as if she'd missed something, she finally made her way out to the main section of her quarters.

Mojave's Captain's quarters were very spacious. Almost intimidatingly so, compared to what she'd had as an officer on the Hina. In addition to the most comfortably sized room she'd ever had since living planetside, her quarters also contained a large entertaining space made up of a circular sitting area near the viewport, a dining table that could sit most of the senior officers, an adaptable kitchen-meets-gathering-room section of counters which included her replicator, and a smaller adaptable workspace/second room off to the other side. It was essentially a comfortable residence. She felt almost guilty with the amount of space alotted her. Hosting the senior officers would need to be a priority once things were settled.

The idea of a coffee sounded delightful right now, but she didn't really want to then immediately run on it. A reward for after, she decided. She grabbed her chronometer and headed out the door.

--

The Promenade was sparsely populated at this hour. Not quite empty. It might be the station's night cycle, but that was a somewhat arbitrary metric. It was needed for the stability of life aboard station, but visitors were likely used to operating on a wide range of schedules. Cassandra was surprised how calming the overall atmosphere was though. The lighting was soft and warm, the louder crowd noises absent so most of the sound was muted conversation and the sounds of the fountain a level below her on the ground floor of the promenade. A level and a half above, a large viewport above the courtyard served as a skylight of sorts, and the stars spread across the ceiling giving the impression of being outside, if you didn't think too hard about it.

She rounded a corner, feeling the brush of leaves against her shoulder as she cut just a little too close to the planter. Other than keeping her body in motion, her mind was calm. She'd gone for a few runs on the Hina, but the atmosphere of Mojave was different, freer. And it gave her a bit of perspective.

She'd allowed herself to become more isolated in recent months. At first, the notion seemed nonsensical. She was surrounded by personnel focused on following her orders, who she could reach at any hour. She had amiable interactions with dozens of people every day. Her mood was cheerful, as always. At first glance, feeling lonely and isolated seemed inaccurate. But, maybe just from the clarity of this early morning run, she knew that she'd mostly been simply keeping up appearances. She was affable and cordial, but she had boundaries up. She was resistant to truly engage with the people around her, busying herself with day to day tasks rather than worrying about truly getting to know them.

Jol's death had robbed her of one of her closest friends for years and the primary person she went to after duty hours ended. Cassandra had always put the uniform before herself, and that wasn't especially likely to change. But she had previously attained more balance than she had at present.

A stray glance at her outfit reinforced this line of thinking. Her casual persona had become a facsimile of the mask she wore during the day. Even now, when most were asleep, she was still in character. The Captain.

Some of that was necessary. Command, especially of an installation like this, was always a bit dependent upon appearances. And given the political dynamics of the region, myth-building was part of the job. But she'd need to be sure she wasn't letting herself hollow out either. That'd be of no use to her crew, her residents, or herself. Her first experiences of command had been wrapped in urgency and catastrophe, so she'd made herself all business. She hadn't let herself find her footing.

The stairs to the third level passed under foot, the strain of her legs a bit more apparent now. It'd likely be the last leg of her run. So how do you get your mojo back? The voice in her head might have been herself, but she was glad it came constructively and not derisively.

She looked at her own reflection in the window passing by. This is who she'd been her whole life. Sometimes things knocked her down. Sometimes...often...the losses stung. But she always stayed in motion. Like it or not, this uniform was a part of who'd she'd been for years. So maybe that was the key. The boundaries needed to come down, but she knew the uniform would stay. So instead of disappearing in it, she'd inject herself into it. Purpose, duty, confidence, conviction...mischief.

"Computer. Give me a backing track. Something classic. Something with guitar," Cassandra said. The chord struck, issuing from her combadge just loud enough to reverberate through the hall, and a second wind seemed to hit her. The hall back to the turbolift approached...and passed to the left as she cut a path for another lap.

She didn't need to just be The Captain. She'd be herself. Captain Cassandra Hawk. Starfleet had given her the title and the posting. Instead of letting it shape her, she'd make it her own. But first, she’s finish one more lap.

 

RSS Feed