06-19-2025, 06:10 PM
>> Engineering >>
Clutching his PADD maybe a little too tight to his chest, Ian’s pace slowed down when he saw (and went through) the aftermath of the explosion and subsequent combustion-and-plasma fires. He let out a low whistle, which he cut short when he saw everybody else had gathered already at the First Officer’s requested spot.
“...what in the name of all of Montgomery Scott's whiskey bottles happened here.” Despite the silly euphemism, Ian wasn’t sure the First Officer was entirely happy. “To make sure it doesn't happen again, and to make sure it wasn't sabotage. And frankly so do I.”
The First Officer looked directly at Ian. His eyes widened. Had it been the whistle? Had it been the tardiness? Gosh he was stoic. What a picture of a Starfleet Officer. Shit, he was talking.
“That's where you two come in.”
Ian gulped.
“If you need specialized equipment,” he finished, “tell me, and I'll move whatever I need to move to try to get it for you. Just give me the answer, please.” Ian would have to remember that. He was still used to jerry-rigging things in order to make things work. He wasn’t in the scrapyard any more. This point was enunciated when the First Officer patted his shoulder.
Other people started doing other things, and Ian just stood there with a dumb look on his face, his shoulder muscles now tense and taut because the First Officer had literally given him a pat. He did his best not to cough at the atmosphere, but his barely-there Klingon genetics had not given him any redundant organs to cope with the dangers that Starfleet may bring.
The three Security people seemed to have everything under control. He didn’t know their names (granted, he didn’t really know anybody’s names), but would have made a mental note to tell their Department Head how good of a job they did. He also tried not to draw their attention as he coughed and turned, trying to draw air from the better part of the area.
“We’ve identified the likely source of the explosion,” one of the Security were saying, “a deuterium pump.” Ian frowned and shook his head. Deuterium was an isotope of Hydrogen. And Humans still talked about when a blimp called the Hindenburg blew up, filled with Hydrogen and primed to pop. One of the chemicals used in the matter-antimatter warp core, it was Very Concerning that this one had exploded.
“We’ve got respirators, but anyone going further in’s gonna need more, robust gear.”
“Uh, yes please.” Ian spoke up, his voice just a level lower than Radley’s, in case the First Officer and Security Officer wanted to ignore him for the moment and talk about more important things than Ian’s breathing.
==Tags!==
Clutching his PADD maybe a little too tight to his chest, Ian’s pace slowed down when he saw (and went through) the aftermath of the explosion and subsequent combustion-and-plasma fires. He let out a low whistle, which he cut short when he saw everybody else had gathered already at the First Officer’s requested spot.
“...what in the name of all of Montgomery Scott's whiskey bottles happened here.” Despite the silly euphemism, Ian wasn’t sure the First Officer was entirely happy. “To make sure it doesn't happen again, and to make sure it wasn't sabotage. And frankly so do I.”
The First Officer looked directly at Ian. His eyes widened. Had it been the whistle? Had it been the tardiness? Gosh he was stoic. What a picture of a Starfleet Officer. Shit, he was talking.
“That's where you two come in.”
Ian gulped.
“If you need specialized equipment,” he finished, “tell me, and I'll move whatever I need to move to try to get it for you. Just give me the answer, please.” Ian would have to remember that. He was still used to jerry-rigging things in order to make things work. He wasn’t in the scrapyard any more. This point was enunciated when the First Officer patted his shoulder.
Other people started doing other things, and Ian just stood there with a dumb look on his face, his shoulder muscles now tense and taut because the First Officer had literally given him a pat. He did his best not to cough at the atmosphere, but his barely-there Klingon genetics had not given him any redundant organs to cope with the dangers that Starfleet may bring.
The three Security people seemed to have everything under control. He didn’t know their names (granted, he didn’t really know anybody’s names), but would have made a mental note to tell their Department Head how good of a job they did. He also tried not to draw their attention as he coughed and turned, trying to draw air from the better part of the area.
“We’ve identified the likely source of the explosion,” one of the Security were saying, “a deuterium pump.” Ian frowned and shook his head. Deuterium was an isotope of Hydrogen. And Humans still talked about when a blimp called the Hindenburg blew up, filled with Hydrogen and primed to pop. One of the chemicals used in the matter-antimatter warp core, it was Very Concerning that this one had exploded.
“We’ve got respirators, but anyone going further in’s gonna need more, robust gear.”
“Uh, yes please.” Ian spoke up, his voice just a level lower than Radley’s, in case the First Officer and Security Officer wanted to ignore him for the moment and talk about more important things than Ian’s breathing.
==Tags!==