[sb118-gorkon] Ensign Ethan Espinoza - Light at the End of the Tunnel
Ethan Espinoza
(( Gateway Room - Lab Labyrinth - Gibaria Outpost ))
Finch: What did he say, Commander?
Neathler: I’m not sure. Something about a voice and something unfinished?
Try as he might, Ethan couldn’t mask the worry etched across his face. The truth of it surfaced plainly when the elderly Commander swiveled him toward her, studying him with the kind of practiced scrutiny that made concealment utterly futile.
Finch: I thought he did. ::She gently held the ensign's elbow and pulled him to face them both.:: Mister Espinoza, are you quite alright to continue?
Though his smile wavered, the sharp nod that followed was all resilience and resolve. Internally, nothing felt out of place; no unnerving voices, no sense of wrongness. If symptoms (beyond the obvious) emerged, then they’d worry. For now, the mission mattered more, and he couldn’t in good conscience let his nerves derail what they were here to do. Not when he was (seemingly) of sound mind and functioning.
Espinoza: I don’t… feel wrong? I don’t feel any different at all. Let’s carry on. I’m good.
Whether the smile was for her sake or for his, he couldn’t quite tell. It was honest, though, if uncertain. Commander Finch went about with a fleeting once-over of her tricorder, though the interference from the gate wouldn’t provide anything substantial. Likely, they wouldn’t get any answers until they were back on the ship.
Finch: It’s difficult to get any sort of precise reading due to our proximity to the gate. If you’re absolutely certain that you don’t feel any different, we’ll make way. I can blame rambling on my age, but this is a tad different.
Neathler: Are you feeling okay? Something unusual?
Espinoza: Nothin’ at all. It could be the gate, or somethin’ that’s contaminated us. Maybe the radiation? I heard somethin’ before, but… well, if what we’ve seen before is anythin’ to go by, the vines don’t seem to be able to puppet people without, uh… ::he gestures towards the skewered beast off at their flank, statuesque and silent::
The contamination theory still seemed the strongest argument, though he struggled to accept that radiation alone could produce something like this. Conversely, if another contaminant were responsible, he would have expected the radiation to have broken it down, unless the source was something that thrived within the gateway’s environment. That left only the flora or fauna they’d encountered so far, and he was unsettled by both.
Whatever the case, it didn’t seem - a sudden crackle snapped him out of his spiral, eyes fluttering about for the source of the voice that followed.
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?
Ethan’s lips pursed in thought, but eventually resulted in a shake of his head. It was tricky to articulate just what it was he’d heard.
Espinoza: Unfortunately not, Commander. It was more like… many voices, really. Very distant.
With Commander Neathler’s aid, the remainder of the vines were shifted.
Neathler: When you’re ready.
Espinoza: Ready.
Finch: Response
The two of them wrenched the maintenance hatch open with a painstaking effort, rewarded by a deafening screech of metal and a sharp hiss of hydraulics. Around them, the vines quivered uneasily, but settled slowly after.
The dimly lit innards of the maintenance hatch offered yet another glimpse into just how worryingly overrun this place had become. The vines hadn’t breached these tunnels, but an odd moss had: a splash of crimson that reminded him uncomfortably of the carmine tufts clinging to the beasts they’d encountered. He did briefly wonder if the two had some relation, but decided any further speculation about really anything was fruitless.
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: Response
The Chief of Security had volunteered to go first, and he, frankly, had no objections. He’d taken his share of risks already, and while he was undeniably more disposable than Neathler, his heart could use a brief reprieve. Her venture into the crevice was short, and when she withdrew, the substance coating her hand could only be described as… well, blood. It had the same sticky sheen, at least.
Neathler: They’d better have something to wash our hands up there.
Ethan hesitated, studying her. The crease in her brows didn’t escape him, and he suspected that whatever had given her pause, brief though it was, did not bode well for the prospect of crawling through the stuff
Espinoza: …is everything well, Commander? Still confident crawling through it?
Neathler / Finch: Response
Ethan paused for just a moment before stalking toward the downed, spasming mech suit. His gaze never left the loitering beast, but he flicked his attention between it and the exposed innards of the suit. The occasional thump of metal grippers hammering against the durasteel made him flinch, but he stayed focused on his task. The operator’s seat was lined with a thick, leathery material, and after a few moments of effort he had it torn free and in his hands. Returning to his Commanders, he began ripping it into thin strips.
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.
Neathler / Finch: Response
He handed out the makeshift wraps before winding a pair around his own hands, layering the leathery strips up to his wrists. The result looked suspiciously like mittens, and he silently prayed they wouldn’t end up in a situation where actual combat was required. Trying to fend off eldritch entities or whatever nonsense this gate had in store next while wearing little mits would be a humiliation he wasn’t prepared to die with.
Espinoza: Onwards ‘n upwards, then.
Neathler / Finch: Response
And so they went, carefully navigating through the suffocating tube. The moss beneath his mitten‑clad hands had the strangest texture, more sponge than anything he’d expected, offering almost no resistance until his fingers sank fully in, curling awkwardly around each ladder rung. The diagonal slope made the ascent less cumbersome than it might have been, though the moss never relented. Careful to keep their faces and necks from so much as brushing the stuff, this particular stretch was a slow one. Nearing the top, they crawled on hands and knees toward an access hatch he could only assume led into the viewing box. And then, to their surprise, something drifted down the tunnel toward them:
Not one voice, but several. And to their even greater surprise, the carmine tufts ahead (and presumably behind) had begun to slowly fold inwards, rippling like a toiling wave, presumably to delay their escape.