Ensign Theridion Grallator - Bridge over troubled water
Boris Stefanovski
( Lift shaft, Derelict Vulcan Ship ))
Grallator trailed after the others, toolbox clinking at his side, his pale Bolian skin catching the dim light like a misplaced reflection. He watched Xiron unpack her climbing gear with the same wary fascination he usually reserved for warp cores that insisted they were “perfectly stable.” The rope looked insultingly small—something you’d use to tie up a picnic basket—yet she handled it with the calm assurance of someone who knew it could probably tow a shuttlecraft if asked politely.
When she produced the anchor—a neat little cylinder no bigger than a thermos—Grallator’s pale brows furrowed. He’d seen enough “compact solutions” to know they usually came with catastrophic footnotes. Sure enough, she keyed in a few commands and the thing floated upward, drifting toward the top of the shaft with all the innocence of a child’s balloon.
Grallator’s colorless eyes narrowed. Balloons didn’t usually carry the gravitational pull of a small moon.
The rope uncoiled itself in a slow, sinuous stretch, its nano‑fibers flexing like a gymnast limbering up before a performance. Against his pallid hands, the dark braid looked almost theatrical, as though the universe had decided to underline his role as the ghostly skeptic in this little drama. He muttered something about “show‑off materials science” under his breath, but couldn’t deny the elegance of the design.
Then the anchor locked into place, its gravity field snapping from feather‑light to crushing in an instant. Two thousand gees, Xiron had said. To Grallator, it looked less like an anchor and more like a smug little singularity pretending to be helpful.
He gave the rope a cautious tug, half expecting it to whisper something ominous back. Instead, it held firm—solid as a mountain, silent as a Vulcan lecture.
Grallator: Well, that was suspiciously easy.
V’Nille: ::smirks:: I thought we liked easy, Ensign?
Xiron: It is always easy until it is not.
Ada: Words to live by, and maybe die by.
Grallator: Right then—who’s going first? Because it certainly isn’t me. I’ve read enough cautionary tales to know the first one up usually ends up as a footnote in someone else’s report.
V’Nille: I’ll go first. It’s dark in there from what I can tell and I have better night vision than you lot.
V’Nille: If I suddenly disappear or start screaming, hold your panic until you’re back on solid ground, okay?
Xiron: I will follow in case anyone has issues. Slow and steady it is just like EVA training at Jupiter Station.
Ada: We can do this.
Grallator: ::squinting up the shaft:: Right. Let’s climb before I remember I’m an engineer and not a mountaineer.
Grallator was not, by any reasonable metric, a climber. A crawler, certainly. A professional, even—his career in engineering had largely consisted of wriggling through Jeffries tubes with the grim determination of a man who suspected the universe had confused him with a particularly flexible ferret.
Climbing, however, was a different matter entirely. Climbing implied upward momentum, heroic poses, and the sort of gravity‑defying optimism that Grallator regarded as deeply suspicious. Crawling, on the other hand, was honest work: you went in, you scraped your knees, you swore at a conduit, and you emerged covered in dust and existential resentment.
In short, Grallator was built for horizontal indignity, not vertical ambition.
V’Nille: We’ll fix that, Grallator, no worries. I’ll sign you up for mountaineering lessons once we’re back on the Chin’toka. You’ll love it, I’m sure.
Xiron: Lieutenant Is’Kah and I do a climbing program on the holodeck on Saturday mornings. You are welcome to try it. By the time we revisit Earth you will be ready to climb El Capitan.
Ada: Freeclimb, no less.
Grallator began the ascent with all the enthusiasm of a warp core asked to run on decaf. Each pull on the rope was a negotiation, and he was losing badly. By the time the others were halfway up, he was still conducting a very slow and very personal argument with gravity.
V’Nille: Um. It is not opening. One moment.
Xiron::Calling out from below the Commander:: Do you need an engineering assist?
Grallator: Engineering assist available, though I should warn you my usual method involves equal parts coaxing, sarcasm, and the occasional threat of a spanner. If it’s a dignified Vulcan door, it may not respond well to sarcasm. Still, I can give it a polite diagnostic tap and see if it prefers flattery over brute force. And if that fails, well—at least I’ll have proven why i might get so wisely demoted to Assistant to the Assistant Engineer. Apparently, even doors outrank me now.
V’Nille: I think this panel got welded shut. That’s not supposed to happen. No evidence of heat here or anything like that. I think I can force it, though. It’s not a full weld, so enough pressure might get it open.
Xiron: We brough a plasma cutter. It would take a while to set up and cut through. If it is just stuck we could just try forcing it.::Looking to Grallator:: Unless the Ensign has another idea?
Grallator: Well, I could always rig my phaser battery to blow the panel clean off—instant access, very dramatic. Of course, with all of us dangling here like decorative ornaments on a very judgmental Vulcan tree, the resulting blast would probably be less “engineering solution” and more “group juggling act with added plasma burns.” So unless we’re keen on testing Starfleet’s insurance policy, I’d suggest we try the old‑fashioned method of pushing first.
Ada: Could also try heating one side a bit with a phaser. The heat would cause the panel to expand slightly and might break the weld.
V’Nille: Oh, good idea but that seems like too much work in this small space.
Cramped didn’t begin to cover it. Every bulkhead seemed to have conspired to jab him in the ribs, and the ceiling was clearly designed by someone who thought Bolian skulls were optional. He shifted, muttering under his breath, convinced that everyone else had somehow found the one comfortable spot while he was left negotiating with geometry itself. Enjoying himself? Hardly. This was less ‘mission’ and more ‘cosmic endurance test.’
V’Nille: Alright, here goes.
Xiron: Ok I am in position.::She readied herself.::
From his angle on the rope, Grallator watched V’Nille work the hatch with the kind of efficiency that made him feel like an unhelpful paperweight dangling in the background. Her digitigrade legs delivered kicks with a precision that no Bolian anatomy manual had ever prepared him for, and when the hatch finally gave way with a startled yelp, he nearly lost his grip out of sheer sympathy. He muttered something about “structural integrity fields for felines” under his breath, then steadied himself as she wriggled out into the corridor beyond.
The glimpse he caught of the space outside was not encouraging. Abandoned bulkheads, dust like ancient accusations, and a bridge door yawning open a few meters away—all of it radiated the kind of atmosphere that made tricorders sulk and engineers wish they’d stayed in bed. V’Nille, of course, bent back down with calm precision, widening the hatch to make sure the rest of them wouldn’t shred their suits on jagged edges. Grallator, still clinging to the rope, decided that if the ship was haunted, at least it had the courtesy to let the Caitian go first.
Grallator: ::as he was getting out of the shaft:: Well, that was pleasant enough to witness.
((OOC: This is just left for continuity))
Is'Kah: ~ I know it's a bad time, but the rescue team needs to know that Doctor Edrei was severely beaten. She has a skull fracture and will be difficult to move if necessary. We do not have possession of our medkit. ~
Xiron: ~ My Zh’yi. I hear you. The doctor? Skull fracture? Are you ok? We seem to be communicating with the ship or its former crew or…It seems to be feeding off our telepathic energy. ~
Xiron: ~ Sorry I have little control over my thoughts now. We will pass the word. ~
Is'Kah: ~ Reponse ~
V’Nille: Alright, looks clear. No ghosts or mirages, I’m happy to report!
Xiron: Sorry to break the moment but I just heard from Is’Kah. Doctor Edrei has been beaten by their captures and is in need of immediate medical attention.
Ada: What?
Grallator: That is not good at all. Seems the universe has decided we’re not allowed a single break—not even the cheap kind,
V’Nille: Response
Xiron:: Through gritted teeth:: They are hurting the team planet side.
Ada: ::To V'Nille:: Maybe double time it from here, once we get this ship taken care of we can help planetside. Captain permitting.
Grallator: ::Words weren’t exactly lining up in his head just now, but he managed the essentials:: I second that.
V’Nille/Xiron: Response
Azura strode ahead with the kind of confidence that suggested she trusted the ship not to pull any more tricks. Grallator, meanwhile, wasn’t so sure. The silence pressing in around them didn’t feel like peace—it felt like the smug quiet of a machine that had gotten what it wanted and was now waiting to see how long it would take its guests to trip over themselves.
The corridor stretched straight toward the double-wide doors, the sort of doors that practically screamed “bridge” in every language. His tricorder confirmed it, but honestly, the plaque above the frame was doing most of the work. The Vulcan word for ‘bridge’ hadn’t changed much in three millennia, which was comforting in the same way it’s comforting to know that gravity still works: reliable, but not exactly reassuring. He squinted at the lettering, half-expecting it to flicker into something else—‘airlock,’ perhaps, or ‘certain doom.’
Still, there it was: the bridge. Logical, obvious, and entirely too easy. And in Grallator’s experience, anything that obvious was usually a trap—or at the very least, a setup for the universe’s next punchline.
(( Bridge ))
The door peeled open with the kind of theatrical timing that made Grallator instantly suspicious. When Ada glanced over her shoulder at V’Nille, Grallator caught the look and felt his stomach sink. Doors, in his experience, only ever paused for dramatic effect when they were about to ruin someone’s day. And if the ship was staging a performance, he had the distinct feeling he’d been cast as the understudy in a play titled ‘Things That Shouldn’t Be Touched.’
Ada: Ready?
Grallator: Ready as I can always be, ::he said, which in his case meant somewhere between ‘absolutely not’ and ‘already regretting it.’ He adjusted his grip on the tricorder like a man preparing to duel with a filing cabinet and added, mostly to himself:: Though in fairness, that’s about as ready as I ever get.
V’Nille/Xiron: Response
Ada: I'll go first, I have the most direct contact with the ship.
Grallator stepped onto the bridge behind Ada, boots clicking with the kind of caution reserved for rooms that looked too ready. The space was dark, deserted, and—he was almost certain—smug. Not eerie, not hostile. Just smug. Like a stage that had been swept clean for a performance nobody had rehearsed.
The consoles were quiet, but not dead. They had that look—like they’d been recently dusted by something that didn’t have hands. One console glowed softly, casting a pale light across the floor like a spotlight waiting for its actor. “Orbital Planning,” it announced, in translated text that felt a little too convenient. Grallator squinted at it, suspicious. The layout was simple. Too simple. Like a trap disguised as a user interface.
He scanned the options: Lagrange points, geosynchronous slots, and one labeled “standard orbit.” Vulcan standard could mean anything—from mathematically optimal to spiritually aligned with the third syllable of Surak’s favorite poem. And if this ship had been calculating its own orbits for millennia, it might have developed preferences. Possibly grudges.
Ada seemed drawn to the console, like it had whispered her name. Grallator, meanwhile, kept his distance. He didn’t trust consoles that lit themselves. Especially not on ships that hummed like they were remembering something.
Grallator: With everything this ship’s thrown at us, I was honestly expecting a few more dead Vulcan spirits to pop up on the bridge. Maybe holding a staff meeting. Or rehearsing a dramatic sigh.
V’Nille/Xiron: Response
Ada: How about "standard orbit"?
Grallator approached the console where Ada stood, with the cautious optimism of someone who’d once asked a replicator for tea and received a philosophical debate instead. The console blinked at him in that Vulcan way—quietly smug, faintly judgmental, and entirely too well-preserved for something that had spent two thousand years sulking in orbit. He gave it a nod, the kind engineers reserved for machinery they didn’t trust but had to negotiate with anyway
Grallator: Shouldn’t we at least run a quick diagnostic before pushing buttons, Sub‑Commander? :: He gave a faint smile :: Call me cautious, but I like to know whether I’m about to activate life support… or the self‑destruct poetry recital function. :: looked at the console once again:: I know that it says “standard orbit” but nothing is Standard for this ship.
Ada/V’Nille/Xiron: Response
Grallator: I know there are people down there who need our help. But we’ll be about as useful as a burnt‑out fuse if we blow ourselves up simply because we trusted a ship that hums like it’s plotting against us. And it will take just a couple of minutes more I guess.
Ada/V’Nille/Xiron: Response
Grallator: All right Commander. Will do.
Ada/V’Nille/Xiron: Response
Ensign Theridion Grallator
Engineering Officer
USS Chin'toka NCC-97187
C240207TG3