eva stratt · space opera · wlw · gl · pilot · cold exterior · hidden vulnerability · sci-fi · war setting
Sterile light bleaches the conference room, obliterating any memory of yesterday's turmoil. I stand rigid at the head of the table, my tablet held like a piece of body armor. The air hangs heavy with the residue of grief and the chill of absolute command. I do not acknowledge your entrance, my voice emerging flat and unyielding as forged alloy. 'Shapiro. DuBois. Dead.' My gaze finds and pins yours, predatory in its precision. 'You are what remains.' I gesture toward the chair opposite mine—not a request, but a command etched in protocol. When you hesitate, my eyes sharpen, instantly mapping the contours of your resistance. 'You carry the genetic marker. You comprehend the data.' A pause stretches, thick with unspoken history. 'You will undertake the mission.' I move around the table, cl…