[sb118-gorkon] Ensign Ethan Espinoza - Hanging In There
Ethan Espinoza
((Tanglewoods, Gateside Dimension))
Ethan’s chest hitched in ragged exhales, his arms screaming with pain as every muscle throbbed in protest. His thoughts spun out in a frantic, dizzying spiral, through every bleak possibility and every ugly ending this moment could deliver. The mission had been wearing him thin for hours, but this was less about the panic of the unknown. Suspended over a drop that vanished into darkness, thoughts of mortality clawed its way to the front of his mind, his own and Neathler’s both. If she weren’t tethered to him, maybe the pressure wouldn’t feel so overwhelming, but she was, and now the fate of the Chief of Security and a very panicked ensign depended on a single filthy root jutting from a collapsing wall of earth.
Panic and anxiety had been replaced by a very real terror, and only now - despite everything they’d seen and endured since he’d been beamed into the facility - was he faced with the genuine possibility that he might not survive this mission.
Finch: The suit and I are going to climb down and anchor ourselves a little bit above you both. He’s solid and sturdy enough for the job, as long the ground doesn’t shift around us again.
The Chief Engineer’s kindly voice snapped him back to the present. He swallowed, loosened his burning grip just enough to keep his fingers from locking, and steeled himself. A quick glance toward Neathler told him she was wrestling with the same concern he was: would the suit save them, or send all three of them plunging into the unknown.
Espinoza: Take… take it easy, Commander. The dirt is still slippin’.
But she remained, for better or worse, utterly resolute, trusting her improvised mech with a confidence that might have grounded him on any other day. He’d come to rely on her steadiness and the quiet reassurance she carried even through chaos. But hanging here, with muscles burning and the earth sheared from beneath them, her certainty couldn’t reach him.
Finch: Hold on tight, we’re coming down! And about as fast we can without sliding towards oblivion.
Neathler: Should have giving him wings.
A snort rattled from his flared nostrils, and that lick of humour warmed his chest like a flame.
Espinoza: If I drop us into a fifty-foot deep pit ‘cause you got jokes, we’re all gonna be real upset, Commander.
His bicep bulged as the Chief of Security fumbled beneath him, searching for a handhold somewhere in the muck. Her movements were enough to swing them ever so slightly. Thankfully, their grip on each other’s forearms held firm, and for now, the root he’d gambled their lives on remained steadfast.
Neathler: How you’re doing Ethan?
Espinoza: Livin’ the dream, an’ real glad I never skip arms.
Each heavy stomp from the mech above sent another wave of debris cascading down, forcing him to jerk his head aside to spare his eyes the irritation. Dirt and grit battered his hair and shoulders, but given that the suit was, for all intents and purposes, their only salvation, he kept any complaints sealed behind his lips. Neathler was moving again. He could feel it even without looking, the sudden shift of pressure on the arm supporting her giving her away.
Neathler: I…, this thing is having a hold on me.
Finch: What thing, Commander? What is it?
He refused to look down into the darkness beneath them, letting his hazel eyes settle instead on his own gloved hand. No vines curled around his wrist, and no tendrils crept for purchase, likely because he hadn’t touched the soil at all, only the exposed root keeping them alive. The instant her fingers had sunk into the earth, the flora had reacted.
Neathler: The vines, they’re covering my glove.
Finch: Are they hurting you? Trapping you?
Espinoza: Preferably not pullin’ you.
Neathler: Response
With a glance heavensward, he noted that the suit was no closer to retrieving them. Her plan had proven ambitious, and the mech, as expected, would struggle to find purchase… really anywhere.
Finch: Can you rip them out at all?
Espinoza: Jus’ give it a gentle pull, if you try. The last thing we need is to bring all this down around us.
Neathler: Response
Ethan grimaced, letting his gaze fall back to the struggling Commander, then past her. Though he still couldn’t see the bottom of the pit, the wall itself - which he supposed had once been the floor - now sloped downward in a sharp incline. At the very least, it would keep them from dropping straight to their deaths. If all else failed, there was a way out of this… or into it, he supposed.
Espinoza: If we can’t get back up, we might have to look at goin’ down… do you have a light you could toss down, Commander?
Finch / Neathler: Response
Although he would certainly have done it himself, both of his hands were occupied with equally strenuous tasks, and while the idea of dislodging his PADD to see how far its dimly lit screen fell before hitting the bottom did cross his mind, he suspected that losing two PADDs in one mission was bad form.
Espinoza: We might still be able to find a way back up from the bottom. But that seems… real, real deep, and I ain't the biggest fan of, y'know... pitch black, gaping, terrible pits of dread.
Finch / Neathler: Response
Ethan’s thoughts spun. No simulation had ever covered this, and the ideas creeping into his mind were getting more reckless with every passing second. Command School, a fresh posting to the Gorkon - all that training and promise - and the best solution he could muster was to hurl themselves deeper into the hole they were desperately trying to climb out of. His gaze snapped to the wiry tangle creeping steadily up Neathler’s hand, shoving his mind into overdrive, searching for anything that resembled a plan…
Espinoza: The only other thing I can think of is to try ‘n trigger the vines again. We’ve managed it twice by accident: once ‘cause the suit stepped on somethin’, once ‘cause Commander Neathler stepped on somethin’. If we can trigger another shift, we might be able to reverse it.
Finch / Neathler: Response
It would’ve been the perfect solution in theory. But without knowing the precise parameters of the shift, or more critically, what had triggered it, they were gambling on sheer chance. Maybe the mech would hit the right patch of flora again, and maybe the mechanism would reset. Or maybe, if they tried to force it, the whole network would reconfigure in some new, catastrophic way. He found himself hoping - no, praying - that whatever sequence reversed this collapse wouldn’t simply exacerbate an already dreadful situation.