Feanulde was, despite outward appearances, attempting to relax and engage with her hobbies, such that she'd picked them up in her time amongst the Coalition. It happened that said hobbies were nearly indistinguishable from her actual work, as she picked at the guts of some kind of technological device that likely only she recognized at this point. Neatly organized tools hung on or laid atop spartan racks, all placed in ergonomic positions mathematically calculated and placed to a precision that would make an expert clockmaker blush for her specific bodily measurements and frequency of tool use (itself carefully tracked by Feanulde herself, of course.) The same principles held true for the rest of her room, with crisp white blankets on black sheets folded neatly on a bed that looked far too narrow to be comfortable positioned opposite a second desk holding the only sign of disorder in the entire room: an MRE, half-opened then seemingly forgotten.

Such pristine order was as vulnerable as it was exact. In particular, the entire setup on the workbench was surrounded with the scuff marks of minor impacts and scrapes. These aberrations marring the otherwise-perfect surface explained themselves when the elf sitting at the bench shouted, leapt out of her chair, and very nearly physically threw her esoteric project against the wall, sending three different racks tipping into those marks with precision enviable by a practiced marksman. In that precious instant between stimulus and response, her brain made the determination that she was not, in fact, being shelled, assassinated, burglarized, or fired at or near with any form of weaponry, or in any actual danger whatsoever. It was just a call, identified as a military communication by her neurolinked comms suite. "What!?" she barked, setting her device back down on the workbench. "I [i]will[/i] be reporting you if you're interrupting me for some frivolous nonsense."

The delay in the person on the other line responding suggested they might've been anticipating such a response. "Your presence is urgently required in your unit's ready room."

"For what?" She didn't shout this question, but her words were even more clipped than usual. 

"A task that I am not allowed to share over this channel, Specialist Naraciel."

"That is not my rank."

"Specialist Operator Naraciel, these orders are classified and coming from a superior officer. Please follow protocol." The threat of a counter-report did not need to be stated. 

"Fine, fine, yes, I'm on my way." Feanulde hung up before she could hear any reply from the other end of the line, which she didn't [i]know[/i] would contain the phrase "pain in the ass" but had a reasonable suspicion given prior encounters with people unused to elven hearing. She quickly put all but the essential thrust of the conversation out of her mind as she turned toward her bed and the drawers it rested on. A quick button press opened the one near the end, containing a pre-packed bag of uniform and necessities for deployment. Said bag was too large for her frame and, by extension, her ability to carry it efficiently, but she didn't have time to retrieve an actual career soldier to pressgang into being her luggage boy. She hoisted it over her shoulders with a grunt, reminding herself to get an actual harness constructed for her things instead of just working with a single-strap bag.

She squatted down to press a significantly more hidden button near the headboard. It was further disguised as a fingerprint scanner; in reality, there was no sensor at all, just an electronic locking system with no direct connections for inputs. Focusing for a moment, she channeled a bit of electricity into it to flip the internal switch, then slid the second drawer out. In it was her sidearm, three magazines, and a holster she proceeded to belt around her waist. Feanulde wasn't likely to be shot at now, but she wasn't going to leave things to any amount of chance, however remote the possibility.

Kit acquired, she walked to her door. The elf paused only briefly to look mournfully at her once-immaculate shelves, before shaking her head, opening the door, and walking out of her military housing and toward the 3rd Tactical Operations Team's ready room elsewhere in the complex.