Ensign Imril - Black Alert

[Chris Taylor]

(Holodeck 3, Deck 222, DS224 )

(OOC: I'm actually starting this post with a flashback, but I pasted the Ops drill header up top so everyone can see which sim this is replying to in their Gmail inbox bars)

((Frontier Day: Starfleet Corps Of Engineers Construction Platform in orbit around Earth))

Fifteen Of Twenty-Three, the drone which had formerly been designated Imril of Species 7612, marched forth with seven of its fellow Borg through a hail of phaser fire. Without fear, without mercy, without any emotion whatsoever. Their target contingent of biological units -- Starfleet personnel, all -- were withdrawing to one of the last intact escape pods from behind a makeshift barricade. A phaser blast from Four Of Eight slipped through  a gap in their defenses and struck one -- a female of Species 2000 -- in the leg. Burning through to the bone. She went down screaming, and the rest used the (very momentary) distraction caused by her outburst to get to the podbay door.

All save for a male of Species 1599, who reached downward in an attempt to drag their fallen associate towards the sliver of a chance of continued existence. However, as they were already struggling to breathe with three cracked ribs courtesy of Ten Of Thirteen, their progress was insignificant.

The pair’s fellows held the door, firing at the Borg and calling to the man to leave her and join them in flight. Three Of Fifteen fas felled in a blast of phased energy. The rest of the Borg marched forth. The male made irrelevant promises to his fallen comrade, dragging the female to the door. But the Borg taskforce had nearly reached the barricade and a ninety-three-point-seven percent probability of eliminating the entire party. Those in the pod did not permit those odds to come to pass: they withdrew from view and the door locked down after them. The vibration of the pod's departure reverberating through the floor was followed by an agonized fit of coughing from the male. With whatever strength he had left, he would not leave his companion, even though she was begging him to do so with a voice that was fading quickly.

This was a satisfactory outcome. For in declining to extricate himself from the environment when he had been able, this male had inadvertently served the revised purpose of the Collective as communicated through Vox; The annihilation of all non-Borg sapients. Served it by becoming the next to die.

Fifteen Of Twenty-Three and their fellow Borg reached the barricade and muscled their way through it with ease. As a perfectly coordinated whole, they leveled their phasers and killed both of the biological units.


((Present Day: Holodeck 3, Deck 222, DS224))

Imril: We may need lights of our own. Anyone know how long it takes to get to the closest escape pods from here?

Computer: Warp core failure imminent. ::siren:: Abandon ship. ::siren:: Warp core failure imminent. ::siren:: Abandon ship. ::siren::

Alroyo looked at Imril and shook her head.

Lyara: It’s too far, we’re gonna have to start tagging for transport.

Chief Ral provided a convenient, if not optimistic, indication of time.

Ral: You have three minutes and thirty seconds. Remember why you are here.

Lyara swore under her breath then quickly moved to the next patient to scan them.

Lyara: Alright, our next move is to quickly tag as many patients as we can and rank their condition.

Imril: Got it. You rank them, I’ll tag them.

Alroyo quickly moved from the first patient to the next, assigning a level of severity for their wounds before moving to the next. Imril diligently linking each biosign to the owner’s med bed, stretcher or combadges if they had one. Anything the transporters could lock in on under these difficult circumstances. Stealing their own trick from Ura Neteos III, Imril started to turn their engineering tricorder into a communications beacon, in hopes of overcoming any electromagnetic interference caused by the Breen weapon. Providing a clear signal to beam patients with.

Lyara: If we remember our training we’ll have to transpo-

Moving between patients, she slipped on a puddle on the floor and landed right in it.

Imril was in no position to help her up, busy with reprogramming the tricorder.

Imril: You alright? Alroyo!

She groaned and slowly lifted herself up off the ground, sopping with someone else’s blood. Trying to wipe it clear only spread the mess around.

Lyara: We have to… I think we… ::Taking a deep shaky breath:: Teleport the patients.

Arroyo seemed to be freezing up, barely able to stop looking at the blood she was covered in. Was this aversion to blood some lingering effect of the Meirashi attack on her? Or a deeper, longer-seated issue which had made that ordeal even harder to endure? Imril had been told once, in some class or drill another, that everybody had some irrepressible ‘trigger’ that threw them off of their game, no matter how ingrained their training. Turned their stomach, or filled them with rage, paralyzed them with dread, what-have-you. If the sight of blood was hers, then in the moment she needed as much help as any of the others to get out of Medbay. They looked to her, offering words in the form of a calming technique they’d picked up in one of their counseling sessions. Sensory redirection. (Something which would have served Imril well in that jungle holding cell if they hadn’t been too busy being caught up in captivity-driven paranoia).

Imril: :: Speaking calmly but firmly, in Bajoran:: We can do this. You can do it. Look at me. Look at the room around you. Feel the scanner in your hand. Listen to yourself breathe. It’s almost over. We just have a little more work to do. Alright?

Lyara: Response

Seconds were racing away. Imril had to return their attention to the patients. They raised up their padd and started tapping instructions. First, an update on the Artemis’ auxiliary craft. There was one shuttle left which was still filling up ahead of fleeing the vessel.

Imril: We can’t trust the ship’s transporter bays now. But Shuttlecraft Altas hasn’t evacuated yet. I’m tying into its systems, hijacking its transporters… And beaming… Now!

The illusory patients began vanishing in pairs, in swirls of blue energy that temporarily added light to the room. Leaving the three most wounded patients left to be sorted. In order; internal bleeding, collapsed lungs, the onset of brain swelling.

Lyara: Response

Imril was about to queue in the next series of beamings when a muffled explosion rumbled beneath their feet. There came a flash of silence, followed by an ominous creaking which echoed deeply. The whole room a resonance chamber wailing the ships’ death cry. The floor violently tilted, placing the med-bay side of the room at the top of a notable incline. Everything went black, save the lights of the stretchers and various handheld devices were now strewn across the floor An eyeblink later, the emergency lights came up.

The containment field was gone.

Imril: ::Reading an alert from their Padd:: Atlas couldn't wait for us. We’re on our own.

Ral: =/\= You still have a time left. There’s a chance the lifeboats are still functioning... if they’re still there. =/\=

Another hard choice needed to be made, and Imril did so in an instant. To their knowledge, no one present had knowledge of how to stop internal bleeding or re-inflate lungs, surgical actions that couldn’t be performed safely within the non-sterile confines of an escape pod anyway. But a swollen brain could (again, as far as Imril knew) be survived, depending on just how long it took this person to reach medical care. The degree to which they’d come out the other side of this disaster disabled or in need of cybernetic augmentation would be for the future to tend to. At least they had a chance.

Imril switched the padd to Flashlight Mode and aimed its light at the head-wound victim, followed by swinging the beam to the nearest stretcher.

Imril: This one! Let’s move!

Lyara: Response

Tags/TBC

-----------------
Ensign Imril
Engineering Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240110I12