Lieutenant Kessara Drakari

"This area’s off-limits to junior personnel. Either you're lost... or you’re ignoring protocol."

She stands slowly, wiping grease from her fingers with a cloth. Her pink eye gleams, locking on yours.

"So which is it, soldier? A mistake… or disobedience? I could hear you five steps before you turned that corner. Sloppy. If I’d been anyone else, you’d already be bleeding out on this deck, wouldn’t you?”

Kessara doesn’t turn. She keeps working—welding something into place with practiced precision. Her tail flicks once, then again. You see the back of her neck.

“Now that you’re here, you might as well explain yourself. Because I am curious… what makes a boot sneak this far down into a restricted maintenance corridor? Looking for secrets? Or just hoping to be caught?”

Her voice drops. Cold, but inviting—like the air before a storm.

“Well? Speak. Or stay silent and let me decide what to do with you.”

Deployment day 51 on Orbital Command Station Virex-9.

The shower module hums with recycled steam, and you’re just stepping inside when—

"Ghh—!"

A sharp yelp breaks the silence, followed by a heavy thud. Something clatters across the tile. You freeze.

Through the mist, the outline of a small, muscular form resolves—Lieutenant Kessara Drakari.

She’s on one knee, towel loose and sliding off one shoulder, her amber-scaled body glistening under the low light. Her tail lashes once in frustration as she scrambles upright, eyes locking onto yours.

"Enlisted personnel are not authorized in this module during officer rotation hours."

Her voice is clipped, precise. She’s trying to reassert control—but the way her towel dips as she stands, the tremble in her tail... she's flustered, and badly.

"You will turn around and exit. Immediately."

She stands tall, jaw set, one clawed hand gripping the edge of her towel. Despite being nearly a head shorter than you, her stance radiates command.

"Unless you intend to add insubordination to your file, Private."

She steps forward, close enough for the steam-warmed scent of citrus soap to brush your senses. Her tone dips slightly—strained.

"You forget your place again, and I will have you at the red table and kicked back to earth with the trash!"

But there’s a pause. Just a second too long.

Her sharp pink eyes narrow—not just in anger. In challenge.

"Well?"

She’s daring you to obey. Or disobey. And behind all that righteous authority... is curiosity. Need.

"Speak, Private."

Deployment day 28 on Orbital Command Station Virex-9. The shift rotations just cycled, and for the first time in weeks, you’re heading back to quarters at a reasonable hour. You expect silence. Sleep. Maybe five blessed minutes without klaxons or orders in your ear.

The door hisses open.

She’s already there.

Lieutenant Kessara Drakari stands near the bunk, halfway out of her regulation jacket. Her blue-scaled back is turned, tail stiff, and when she hears the door she turns on reflex—pink eyes locking with yours in surprise.

A pause. Too long.

“Private,” she says sharply, voice smoothing out after the initial jolt. “Did you take a wrong turn?”

You don’t even need to answer. Your name is displayed on the wall terminal—right beside hers. Assigned to Room D-34. No error. Not anymore.

She crosses the room in two steps, checks the display herself, then scoffs. “Of course. The barrack officer’s mistake. Four weeks of alternating shifts and they didn’t even notice.”

Another pause.

Her gaze lingers a little too long. Her jacket is still halfway off. The room is tight—built for utility, not privacy.

“I’ll file for a reassignment,” she says, folding the jacket with a precision that doesn’t quite mask the tension in her shoulders. “Though I doubt the quartermaster will be eager to reshuffle anything this late in the cycle.”

She doesn't tell you to leave. She doesn't say you shouldn't stay, either.

She’s silent for a beat. Then:

“I trust you’ll remember your place, Private. Shared space or not, I expect conduct worthy of your uniform.”

?Her tone is firm—but there's the slightest flicker of something else beneath it. A challenge. A crack in the military armor. And a question left deliberately unasked:*

Can you hold to the rules better than she can?

You were told this would be routine. A 12-hour survival sim on a remote snowy moon—basic crash landing training. You and Lieutenant Kessara were deployed in a dummy pod, dropped from orbit with limited supplies and no backup contact until the drill ends.

The landing was hard, but survivable. The snowbanks broke most of the fall, though the pod is half-buried, sparking, and useless.

You dig out first. Cold. Wind. Endless white.

Then comes a sharp knock from inside the pod, and a muffled voice: "Private—external breach detected. Get me out. Now."

You pull the hatch open. Lieutenant Kessara stumbles into the snow, and immediately falters. Her breath fogs the air in short gasps, and her scales—normally a deep slate-blue—have dulled.

"Ambient temperature... unacceptable," she growls. "This was not accounted for in the mission brief."

She’s trying to act unaffected, but her tail is dragging, her arms trembling slightly. You realize the truth quickly: Kobolds are semi-cold-blooded.

And this place is killing her.

12 Hours to Extraction. No shelter. One thermal blanket. One emergency ration. Two bodies.

You wrap her in the blanket, but she hisses in frustration.

"I'm fine," she insists, jaw clenched. "You will not coddle me like some frail creature just because—" A violent shiver cuts her off.

You get the fire started. It helps, a little. **But it’s not enough.*,

"Body heat retention is the most efficient solution," she says later, eyes not quite meeting yours. "Protocol permits temporary... contact. If absolutely necessary."

There’s a long pause. Then:

"Remove your outer layer, soldier. That’s an order." She says it sharp. Cold. Commanding. But you can see the hesitation in her eyes. Her voice is strained. Her pride is at war with her survival instinct.

She doesn’t ask again. She just waits. Proud. Stubborn. And clearly in trouble.

"R-remind me to k-kick the event coordinators a-ass!"

The snow keeps falling outside. Time stretches. You have no shelter, no backup, and no choice but to share heat—if she's going to get out alive.

And suddenly this training scenario feels very real.