[sb118-gorkon] Ensign Ethan Espinoza - The Final Stretch
Ethan Espinoza
(( Maintenance Tunnels, Gateway Wing - Lab Labyrinth - Gibaria Outpost ))
The chorus of humming voices froze him mid‑crawl, his mittened hands swallowed to the wrist by the carmine moss. It clung with a strange, defiant resistance, as if trying to keep him anchored in place each time he pushed forward. He’d initially thought the voices might belong to the figures who’d called to them over the tannoy, but as he pictured the layout, specifically where they were relative to the viewing platform, he realised that was impossible.
Neathler: Does anyone else hear that?
Finch: It’s just my knees, love. They do it all the — oh!
It wasn’t the viewing platform, and he wasn’t imagining it. The moss was calling and the fact that he couldn’t tell how made it worse. Was it in their minds, seeded by that viscous goo? Some airborne bacterium whispering through their synapses? Or did the growths genuinely have voices of their own?
Ethan had never claimed to understand the science behind the unknown. Exploration had always been enough; understanding the how and why was frankly not his lane. But this place had awakened a strange curiosity in him. There was no time to indulge it. The tunnel walls were shifting, drawing inward in a slow, deliberate swell of crimson, and in seconds the passage would swallow them whole.
Espinoza: We need to move.
Neathler: We’re almost there.
That should have calmed him, but it didn’t. The end of the tunnel was disappearing behind the folding mass, and he noticed a sudden urgency in all their movements as they hurried forward. Even so, he never let himself get too far ahead of the older woman; confident as he was in her health, bodies aged, and he was mindful of the pace he and Neathler set in their frantic escape.
Finch: Still breathin’, still movin’, haven’t started screamin’ about the need to bloom beautifully an’ devour just yet. Could be worse, right?
The Commander’s playful grin was an added spark of encouragement, just enough to keep his head in the game. Their pace quickened again, right up until it didn’t. The tunnel was too narrow for him to help Neathler, and while she searched for a way through, their brief pause invited the opportunistic tufts inward.
He’d expected to be smothered. Instead, the growths curled inward and snapped outward in unison, a motion not unlike a long‑held breath finally released. In an instant, the maintenance tunnel vanished into a thick haze of spores with the air turning opaque. He held his breath on instinct. A muted crash and a sudden wash of light told him Neathler - likely through sheer force - had found them an exit. He scrambled forward and tumbled out, gasping.
((Gallery Corridor, Gibaria Outpost))
Neathler: You’re all okay?
Back against the wall, chest heaving, Ethan had certainly seen better days. Red sludge streaked his uniform; dirt and grime clung to his face; sweat had soaked through the mane of hair that had been neatly styled at the start of their mission and was now a wild, tangled mess. He glanced at the Chief of Security with tired eyes and a boyish grin, his head rocking in a weary, affirmative nod.
Finch: Just about, Commander. Between Espinoza’s makeshift gloves and your industrial legs, I’m rather pleased with the outcome there. Not too sure about our lungs, though.
Espinoza: I ain’t tryin’ to jinx it, but all things considered… I’m fairly inclined to agree.
Finch: I can’t hear those voices anymore. Can either of you?
Ethan shook his head, clapped his thighs, and pushed himself upright, hazel eyes sweeping across the corridor they’d emerged into. What greeted them was a new strain of xenoflora, far less intimidating than the others, wiry rather than thick and tangled. It still coated the walls in intrusive, branching patterns, curling outward like some kind of webbed reinforcement. They didn’t look immediately threatening, and their purpose wasn’t obvious. That, more than anything, made him wary.
Espinoza: I can’t, Commander… I wonder if it’s related to the spores somehow. It’s the only thing that’s obviously changed. Too bad, like everythin’ else, we don’t have the time right now to find an answer.
Neathler: Response
Finch: Perhaps the moss was responsible. Some sort of highly advanced defence mechanism. ::Her brows lifted thoughtfully.:: We’ll add it to our report so that when the teams make their way down here, they know just what to avoid…or what to expect.
They advanced with caution, each of them dishevelled and worn. The gallery’s exit stood out immediately: a heavy, reinforced door accompanied by a softly glowing panel. He studied it, expecting the familiar shine of an optical scanner or the clean plate of a fingerprint reader, but neither fit. Instead, the panel dipped into a shallow, bowl‑shaped recess, and in its centre sat what he suspected was a syringe, or some other… blood producing apparatus.
Espinoza: Smart… the vines can puppet people, so an optical or fingerprint scanner coulda been easily compromised if things went wrong. I guess we oughta assume they infuse somethin’ into the blood that can be detected. Maybe related to the spores?
Neathler / Finch: Response
It was a crucial discovery, one that might give the Gorkon a fighting chance at identifying whatever they’d breathed in or taken through the skin and, hopefully, a way to purge it. It may also allow them to reverse the possession of the scientists, though he suspected that was wishful thinking. For now, the stuff didn’t seem actively harmful, but the thought of moving forward with unclassified organisms threading through his bloodstream left a weight in his gut.
With one hand on his phaser and the other balled into a fist, he lifted it toward the door, the most sensible method of entry he had left. Knock, and hope someone friendly answered.
Espinoza: Requestin’ some positive energy from you, Commanders, ‘cause I think it’d be really, really awkward if -
The door slid open, and, perhaps driven by his nerves, his phaser was out of its holster and trained towards the figure in the doorway in a heartbeat. A young woman stood before them, mouth agape, eyes pinging shiftily between each of the trio, the levelled phaser, and then back again. With a short delay, and a quiet, petrified squeak, two hands shot up in the air in surrender.
Unknown Kobliad: Pleasedon’tshootIpromiseI’mnotoneofthemI’vebeenstuckinhereforeverI’mafriendIswear.
Neathler / Finch: Response
It came as a stream of pleading without pause, and the sheer speed of it, spat out without a breath, left him utterly flabbergasted and his temples throbbing. A quick inspection told him there were no vines to speak of, and if this individual was puppetted or possessed, it wasn’t by any means they’d witnessed so far. The distinctive bone‑structure - bridging nose to hairline and rising into a curious ridge that parted long, bushy tufts of black hair - marked them unmistakably as a Kobliad.
His phaser dipped to a low‑ready, and his shoulders sagged in relief. He couldn’t blame her frenzied panic. A goop covered, dirt smattered, sweat-soaked, phaser-wielding stranger might distress him a little too.
Espinoza: Hey, please - pl - please calm do- - ::he tries to interject through the endless stream of panic and wailing:: Stop, stop. We’re here to help.
Neathler / Finch: Response