Lt. Commander Doz Finch - Send in the Moss
Doz Finch
((The Gateway Room, Gibaria Outpost))
As her team tried to make their way through a maintenance hatch, a voice called out from a nestled speaker.
Voice in the speaker: Hello? Are…are you here to help us? I’m…I’m in the gallery. Uh...up above.
Neathler: Was that the voice you heard earlier?
Hope filled the older woman’s mind, and then drained away like a cold cuppa when the young man pursed his lips.
Espinoza: Unfortunately not, Commander. It was more like… many voices, really. Very distant.
Samira nodded, stoic as ever, then moved her attention over to the vines in front of the team. With the back of her rifle, she nudged one, and as usual it retreated back with its so far typical, recoiling quiver.
Neathler: When you’re ready.
Espinoza: Ready.
They made preparations to climb next; the Chief of Security strapped her rifle across her shoulder, and then wiped her hands against her trousers. Ethan, with his razer sharp combination of brains and instinct, helped the woman to get it open, the cry of metal and hydraulics like Sondheim to her ears.
Peering into the shaft beside her team, her brown eyes squinted and blinked aplenty. It was an unusual respite from the vines, but only because something else was in there. Something crimson and rather mossy-looking, similar to what snaked along the frame of the gate.
Neathler: I don’t think that was the idea of the interior decorator.
Espinoza: Odd that we ain’t seen this elsewhere… careful, Commander. Most of this stuff looks like it spreads with purpose.
Finch: The moss in our dimension also tends to cling to dark and damp places. A very curious similarity, isn’t it?
She moved out the way as the pixie-haired lieutenant commander among them made the first initial steps into the hatch. With her hand on a rung, the woman pulled herself in, but then quickly re-emerged with a hand covered in…goodness gracious, was it blood?
Neathler: They’d better have something to wash our hands up there.
Espinoza: …is everything well, Commander? Still confident crawling through it?
Neathler: The crawling isn’t the problem, ::She raised her hand still showing some signs from the moss.:: it’s this stuff that worries me.
Finch: That’s the red all over your hand, is it?
Head craned to one side like a little owl, she examined the liquid on Samira’s hand, as a zap of creativity seemingly found its way into their ensign's mind. The officer had momentarily left them to dig through the chest cavity of the abandoned mech suit, returning about a minute or two later with hands filled with strips of torn leather.
Espinoza: Call me paranoid, but I don’t wanna touch that directly any more than we gotta. If we’re quick, I’d think the uniforms would prevent any of it seepin’ through.
She beamed brightly. What a clever fellow he was.
Neathler: Good thinking, Ensign.
Finch: Marvellous!
The operations officer handed out a series of makeshift hand wraps, and the three of them began winding the strips along their wrists, almost reminding her of crack gloves used for rock climbing. Though on a certain angle, they did also look a bit like mittens, which she didn’t mind in the slightest. Murphy would have laughed.
Espinoza: Onwards ‘n upwards, then.
Finch: Always better than backwards and downwards.
With a tiny laugh, she moved to the side and prepared and tightened her busied-belt as Samira took the lead this time. With the hatch open, the tactical expert looked inside and up, grabbing onto a rung, and then another, and another, each movement punctuated by the odd sound of leather and squish.
Moments later, Doz and Ethan clambered into the hatch and began their own ascent along the diagonal slope. About as elegant as a rubber band, the white-haired human occasionally felt herself losing her grip on the strange sponge-like moss, and her knees let out an occasional pop in protest.
Neathler: Does anyone else hear that?
Finch: It’s just my knees, love. They do it all the — oh!
Voices. Whispering voices. Then the carmine tufts started acting up, of course they were. Curling, bending inwards, peeling away around them. There was no denying it, now. Mister Espinoza really had heard something, though whether all of them hearing it was a good sign or a worse one, she dared not think.
Espinoza: Response
Neathler: We’re almost there.
Finch: How are you holding up there, Ensign?
Espinoza: Response
With a nod and a wink, she carried on crawling along with a bit more of a pace now, until they all had to come to a stop. Samira placed her hand against the next hatch, but it wasn’t budging. With another crane of her head, Doz blinked at its surface, and then along its rim, trying to determine if the thing had been welded shut, or if there was a hidden mechanism there.
The issue with coming to a halt, as always, was that it tended to invite the very thing you were hoping to avoid. Crimson tufts weren't just peeling and coiling now, but turning towards them, and without so much as a warning inhale, they puffed in unison. The three officers found themselves surrounded by floating red spores, so spurred into action, Samira held her breath and kicked the hatch open with her feet, the sound of it clanging onto the floor on the other side a welcome one indeed.
((Gallery Corridor, Gibaria Outpost))
One by one, they piled out, and the Chief Engineer exhaled her own held breath.
Neathler: You’re all okay?
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: Response
She squeezed her knees consolingly, and then cracked her spine into an upright position. Their surroundings were, like the tunnel they had just left, a wee bit different here. Unlike the thick, almost fleshy tendrils of the lab complex, the walls were only covered in a very thin layer of vein-like patterns. Tiny reddish-brown structures networked outwards like webs or small branches. It was a corridor that almost shimmered iridescently because of it, far calmer than the jungle they’d left behind.
Finch: I can’t hear those voices anymore. Can either of you?
Espinoza / 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.
With a clearing of her throat, she visually searched for the entrance to the gallery and saw that it was a door just a few seconds away. Whether the strange voice in the speaker had locked it or opened it for them, however, was the big question.
Espinoza / Neathler: Response