LtCol Wes Greaves – Chaos

[Jacob Rittenhouse]

LtCol Wes Greaves – Chaos

 

((Conference Room, Deck 1, USS Octavia E. Butler))

The sound of the phaser discharge faded, leaving the conference room in a taut, vibrating silence. Wes froze, listening. Beyond the closed doors to the bridge, muffled voices cut in and out. He crouched a half-step from the hatch, rifle loose across his forearms like a tool he could call to life in an instant. Approaching from the side so as not to activate the motion sensors, the Marine keyed the padd next to the door to prevent automatic opening. With a few more taps, he also verified the doors were not  sealed, not locked.  It meant the element of surprise was one thing he could control. The trick now was timing: a clean, deliberate entry would give him the best line on whoever was dangerous and the best chance to protect the captain without spraying the room blind.

 

He leaned a shoulder lightly against the bulkhead, reading the subtle change in vibration through the metal. It wasn’t random,  short bursts, a stuttered roll, and then that deep, lingering hum. Warp startup. And an abort, quick and sloppy. He grimaced. Whoever was on the bridge was trying to take the ship out of the system.

 

Then the deck pitched beneath him like someone yanked on a tether. The first shove lifted his feet from beneath him; the second slammed him back against the bulkhead. The rifle knocked against his shoulder, the sight skidding into the carpet and fraying a gouge into the floor. For a half-second he simply reacted, feeling the ache begin in his arm and shoulder from the impact, but in another instant he was back on his feet approaching the door again.

 

He steadied himself with a hand against the bulkhead and counted the rhythm of his breathing, letting the familiar procedure calm his pulse. One last check of the rifle’s charge, then he keyed the manual override beside the door. The panels slid apart with a sluggish hiss.

 

 

 

((Bridge, Deck 1, USS Octavia E. Butler))

Wes cut a rough figure in the doorway. His green combat armor was dusted with gray ash and streaks of dirt from the surface of Marohu. The plating was scoured and blackened in places, heat scars from near-miss disruptor fire. A smear of dried blood marked one cheek, evidence of a superficial shrapnel cut already treated in sickbay. Sweat had dried into salt patches along the collar of his vest, a thin line tracing down his temple. He looked like a man who hadn’t had time to stop moving since the planet.

 

As the doors opened, smoke rolled out first, a thin, acrid veil that made his eyes sting. Beyond it, the bridge unfolded in fragments: a console burning, the source of the smoke. Other consoles flickering, warning tones overlapping, the amber glow of alert lighting pulsing through blueish haze.

 

Five security officers stood in a half-circle near the command chair, weapons trained on a single figure. The Zet. Wes didn’t need an introduction to the species. This one however was misshapen. Wrong somehow. As if the entire process of it’s creation had been messed up in some way.  The alien’s shell gleamed under the lights, claws flexing as it shifted its weight, eyes sharp and unrepentant. At its feet lay a discarded phaser, scorched from discharge.

 

Wes’s gaze moved past the line of drawn weapons, and locked on the crimson stain.

 

Captain Rouiancet was down.

 

She lay slumped on the ground, nearly dead center in the bridge, one sleeve and the tunic of her uniform dark with blood. A medical officer Wes didn’t recognize crouched beside her, pressing a dressing to her neck, murmuring words he couldn’t hear. Even from the doorway, he could see the sluggish rise and fall of her chest, too shallow. Shock or sedatives. Maybe both. Her pupils tracked weakly toward the commotion before drifting closed again.

 

The sight hit harder than he expected. Lia wasn’t just his commanding officer; she was his friend. They’d served together for years, first as peers, and then as leader and led. He forced the concern from his mind for now, shifting his focus outward, taking inventory. The Zet: unrestrained, but contained. Security: perimeter established, weapons up, spacing solid. Helm: Varik at the console, movements sharp but efficient. Center: Lahl standing her ground, half-turned toward both the Zet and the injured captain, the posture of someone juggling command whether she wanted it or not.

 

He stepped fully onto the bridge, boots thudding once against the deck. A few heads turned, security officers momentarily reassessing the newcomer before recognizing him. Wes gave a sharp nod as his rifle settled downward in the low read, his eyes fixed on the Zet.

 

Rouiancet: What? What?

 

Lahl: The mercenary vessels are approaching us. We still have their leaders on the ship. Can anyone get me those two that were down in the diplomatic suite? Is that possible?

 

Wes’s eyes flicked toward the forward viewscreen, where two ships now closed the distance toward the Butler. One was small, fast looking, like the kind of strike ship meant to dart in close and harry a larger target. The other loomed behind it, heavier, ugly in its profile. Both designs were unfamiliar, but they carried the unmistakable look of vessels built for violence. The smaller ship broke ahead in a shallow arc.

 

Varik/Dius: Responses

 

Lahl: Dius, or whatever the Caves your name is, I will shoot you. 

 

The Zet they’d encountered at Koreli IV had been proud, polished, a figure of authority. The creature standing before him now was a shadow of that being, deformed, unstable, almost grotesque. The rehusking process must have gone wrong, badly.

 

And then it clicked. The mercenaries in sickbay. Their strange equipment directions, the specialized biobed they’d been forced to construct under threat. It was meant to fix this thing. The mercenaries had been building a way to restore Dius to his original for.

 

Dius/Varik/Rouiancet: Responses

 

The bridge was still a storm of activity. Amid that, Wes realized that most of the bridge crew hadn’t even registered his presence yet. Their focus was on survival, keeping the ship steady, keeping the threat in check. He moved deeper into the room, boots striking against the deck.

 

Greaves: Lieutenant Lahl, status report.

 

He kept his tone level, professional. Not a challenge to her command, but the steady cadence of someone trying to gather the facts before things spiraled further. His rifle stayed lowered.

 

Lahl: Response

 

Dius/Varik/Rouiancet: Responses

 

The captain’s injury drew his eye again. The blood at her neck had slowed, dark and crusted along the collar of her uniform. It wasn’t the kind of wound a dermal regenerator could fix on the fly, too deep, too close to the artery. She was conscious now, barely, and he saw the tremor in her hands as she tried to focus.

 

Greaves: Skipper, it looks like you’re lucky to be alive, but I don’t know if that’s gonna last. We need to get you down to sickbay.

 

Rouiancet: Response

 

Lahl/Dius/Varik: Responses

 

(OOC - Just a couple new tags in this crazy scene upon my arrival, finally answering the skipper’s call!)

 

 

 

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Lieutenant Colonel Wes Greaves
Marine Detachment Commander
USS Octavia E. Butler NCC-82850
E239702WG0
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