Post 285: Wingtip Shadows
Posted on Thu Jul 31st, 2025 @ 5:13pm by Lieutenant JG Robert McMahon & Ensign Joseph McMahon & Lieutenant Evelyn Callister
Edited on on Thu Jul 31st, 2025 @ 5:21pm
567 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission: A New Beginning
The lights in the starfighter hangar flickered briefly as the magnetic containment grid adjusted to the arrival of another patrol unit. The smell of engine coolant and burnt ion particles hung in the air—a scent familiar and oddly comforting to the pilots who called this part of Starbase Obsidian home.
Lieutenant Evelyn Callister stood with arms crossed, her posture ramrod straight as always, her sharp eyes watching the two Peregrine-class fighters touch down with clinical precision. She barely flinched as the hum of the impulse engines dulled and the soft thump of landing gear settling echoed off the duranium walls.
“Nice flying,” she muttered to no one in particular—but it didn’t escape the sharp ears of Lieutenant JG Robert McMahon as he descended the ladder from his cockpit, helmet tucked under one arm.
“Nice?” he asked, brushing a few stray curls from his forehead. “Come on, Commander. That docking maneuver deserves at least a ‘decent.’”
Callister didn’t smile, but her eyes narrowed in that way that hinted at a smirk waiting to happen. “You clipped two meters off the approach vector.”
“I like to live dangerously,” Robert said with a mock bow.
Ensign Joseph McMahon dropped down from the second fighter, a few paces behind his older brother, shaking his head as he approached. “He ‘likes to live dangerously,’” he repeated. “Which is code for ‘I’m terrible at following standard landing procedures.’”
“Shut it, Joey,” Robert said.
“I outranked you before your voice dropped,” Joseph shot back with a grin.
Callister raised a hand and the bickering stopped mid-breath. “I don’t care if you're McMahons or Messiahs. In this wing, we land clean and we fly cleaner. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” both brothers said in unison, their tones matching in pitch and sarcasm level.
She stepped forward, finally allowing a small smirk. “But... your time over the target zone was impressive. You tracked those drone decoys with tighter formation than I expected. Especially you, Ensign.”
Joseph stood a little straighter. “Thank you, Commander.”
Robert leaned in with a stage whisper. “She means me. She’s just being polite.”
“Shut. It,” Callister said again, but this time the words came with a light tone, almost amused. “Debrief in twenty. Tactics room.”
The brothers gave curt nods and headed off toward the locker area, still quietly arguing over who’d scored the highest on the targeting run.
Callister lingered for a moment, glancing at the empty end of the hangar where four more fighters should have been docked. The wing was still rebuilding—slowly. Too slowly for her liking. Scavenged fighters, reassigned pilots, patchwork logistics. Starfleet was still recovering from the last campaign. The brass called the McMahons lucky additions. She called them necessary.
As she turned to leave, she tapped her commbadge.
“Callister to Operations. I want the latest telemetry from the perimeter sweep uploaded to Tactics. And tell Engineering to stop sending me fighters with one working thruster and a prayer.”
“Acknowledged,” came the reply.
She stepped through the hangar doors, boots echoing as they hit the deck. The new wing wasn’t polished, and they weren’t anywhere near full strength. But they had fight in them.
And fight was exactly what they’d need.
Because shadows were gathering beyond the edges of the star charts.
And Evelyn Callister intended to meet them head-on—with the McMahons on her wing.
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