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Entry tags:
Memory: Failing
Source: Canon(ish) (Into Darkness)
Time: 2260 (age nineteen)
CW: Death (not graphic)
It's the engineering room of a ship: a cavernous metal room full of ramps, catwalks, displays, and machinery. The scene is illuminated by red emergency lights and the occasional flash of something malfunctioning--or worse, exploding in a shower of sparks. A klaxon is blaring. Most alarmingly of all, gravity isn't working. Red-shirted men, women, and others, many of them injured and some of them shouting indistinctly, are trying to navigate the mechanical carnage. A few bodies float lifelessly through the chamber.
Pavel, floating several feet above the ground, frantic, and covered in dirt and oil, is digging inside of a sparking panel, one arm looped though the panel's handle so he doesn't drift away from it. The Russian's expression is equal parts concentration and panic.
There's a sudden, alarming lurch and a distant roar. Bright white lights turn on and the alarms fall silent; gravity reasserts itself. Pavel's downward descent is halted by the handle, but not everyone in engineering is so lucky. Screams are cut short as bodies collide with ramps and railings and the cold metal floor.
Pavel lets go of the handle and drops somewhat gracelessly to the deck. For a moment, he stares blankly at the still body of a young woman in a red uniform. Her blonde updo is matted with blood and her blue eyes are wide open. She's older than him, but still so young.
(There's a flash of a memory within the memory: Pavel behind a console, looking at a transporter pad where a Vulcan is reaching out to nothing.)
The engineering section spins back into focus. Are there more alarms going off than there were before? Is that even possible?
The Russian's communicator, miraculously intact, crackles to life and Kirk's voice summons him to the bridge. Pavel answers (yes sir, I will be there immediately), squares his shoulders, and heads for a set of grated stairs on unsteady legs.
Time: 2260 (age nineteen)
CW: Death (not graphic)
It's the engineering room of a ship: a cavernous metal room full of ramps, catwalks, displays, and machinery. The scene is illuminated by red emergency lights and the occasional flash of something malfunctioning--or worse, exploding in a shower of sparks. A klaxon is blaring. Most alarmingly of all, gravity isn't working. Red-shirted men, women, and others, many of them injured and some of them shouting indistinctly, are trying to navigate the mechanical carnage. A few bodies float lifelessly through the chamber.
Pavel, floating several feet above the ground, frantic, and covered in dirt and oil, is digging inside of a sparking panel, one arm looped though the panel's handle so he doesn't drift away from it. The Russian's expression is equal parts concentration and panic.
There's a sudden, alarming lurch and a distant roar. Bright white lights turn on and the alarms fall silent; gravity reasserts itself. Pavel's downward descent is halted by the handle, but not everyone in engineering is so lucky. Screams are cut short as bodies collide with ramps and railings and the cold metal floor.
Pavel lets go of the handle and drops somewhat gracelessly to the deck. For a moment, he stares blankly at the still body of a young woman in a red uniform. Her blonde updo is matted with blood and her blue eyes are wide open. She's older than him, but still so young.
(There's a flash of a memory within the memory: Pavel behind a console, looking at a transporter pad where a Vulcan is reaching out to nothing.)
The engineering section spins back into focus. Are there more alarms going off than there were before? Is that even possible?
The Russian's communicator, miraculously intact, crackles to life and Kirk's voice summons him to the bridge. Pavel answers (yes sir, I will be there immediately), squares his shoulders, and heads for a set of grated stairs on unsteady legs.