Captain Walter Brunsig - The Chaos Left Behind
Quinn Reynolds
((Bridge, USS Triumphant))
Smoke belched out of a sparking workstation, burning a course through Walter’s throat with every breath. In the furious gloom of red alert, he saw an ensign drag their operations officer to the back of the bridge, hands shaking as he pulled a medkit from the wall and the bloody mess of first aid. Another slid into the injured officer’s place at the operations station,
The sight on the view screen would be majestic, if it wasn’t so damn terrifying. A brilliant blue light, refracting through all the colours of the rainbow he could see—and according to sensors, several more he could not. But that magnificent sight was pockmarked with weapons fire and explosions, and the vicious ballet of an all out battle between two dozen starships.
Romulans, Klingons, Starfleet, a handful of ships no one recognised at all. Each from a different timeline, each aware they were trapped in a temporal rift that the USS Hawking was trying to close. Mistrust and fear had run rampant, and when the talking stopped, the shooting started.
Bjarnadóttir: Report from the Hawking—that last hit took their deflector offline. They need a few more minutes to bring it back online and close the rift.
His sharp gaze snapped toward his security chief and she stared definitely back, daring him to utter a sarcastic comment. A few more minutes? He wasn’t sure the Triumphant could take a few more minutes; she was a tough little ship, but the fact they were protecting the near-stationary Hawking limited their options. Each manoeuvre, every firing solution, had to ensure they didn’t leave the Oracle-class exposed. Even then, some hits got through.
Brunsig: Tell Matsuda she owes me another drink and I’m a belligerent debt collector.
A flicker of a grin appeared on Petra’s lips, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Her blonde head bowed, eyes on her console, as she transmitted the message to the Hawking’s captain. Well, then. Walter had no intention of dying anytime soon, or letting the rift tear open and consume space around it.
Brunsig: Bring us—
He wasn’t entirely sure how he went from upright one second to flat on his back the next, but he suspected it had something to do with the excessive, burning pain in his shoulder. His lungs or diaphragm or something equally squishy and delicate in that region refused to work, and he couldn’t get his wind. Rolling onto his side, through the muffled pounding in his ears, he could hear the computer calmly announcing an intruder alert, and Petra’s voice bellowing over everything else.
Bjarnadóttir: McGillian, Basso, protect the captain! =/\= Commander Desoa to the bridge! =/\=
McGillian / Basso: Response
Through the eruption of small weapons' fire on the bridge—the streaking red of phasers, and answering bolts of searing violet—he glimpsed their intruders. Clad head to foot in armour in sleek, dark armour, and not a design from any species in their timeline. Nor had he any clue how they’d got through the shields. People and tech from another version of history, but it was hard to give a damn when he couldn’t breathe.
Was this it? Was this how it ended? His thoughts went to Dylan and Amelia; first Quinn, now him. Were they going to lose both parents in a year?
Bjarnadóttir: Helm, bring us about, I’m locking on to that ship.
McGillian / Basso: Response
Finally, the seize in his chest relaxed, and Walter sucked in a deep breath. He couldn’t feel his arm, either through the shock of the injury or some deeper damage. He could feel his shoulder, and he very much wished he could not—it felt as though someone was holding a blowtorch to his skin and slowly burning a path from front to back. But he could breathe, and that meant he wasn’t done. His kids weren't orphans. Not yet.
Just as he grasped his chair to haul himself up, an intruder collapsed at his feet, the last phaser fired. Walter barked out a question, his German accent more pronounced and his voice rougher than he liked.
Brunsig: We’re clear?
McGillian / Basso: Response
Bjarnadóttir: We’ve got intruders across the rest of the ship. Permission to take a team and—
Brunsig: Take these two, ::he thumbed toward Basso and McGillian, then leaned on the captain’s chair:: and go hunting. Desoa can slide into tactical while you’re gone. I want my damn ship back and I want this rift closed.
McGillian / Basso: Response
--
Commanding Officer
USS Triumphant
simmed by
Commanding Officer
USS Gorkon
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