Commander Jal Desoa - Staggered Titans
Jo Marshall
((Bridge, Deck 1, USS Triumphant))
More sensor anomalies peeled toward them from the outer fringe of the pitched battle, their outlines smeared by interference, bearing down with grim intent, weapons at the ready if not actively engaged. Jal's pulse quickened as he checked the vital readings for Petra, McGillian, and Basso in Engineering. Still there. Still strong. The Oracle-class in their shadow repositioned, sluggish under its own damage, as if dragging broken limbs behind it through sand. A wounded titan trying to rise.
Another impact rocked the ship. Consoles behind him spat sparks like rain. Sharp alert tones chimed on his console.
Desoa: Shields at twelve percent. One more direct hit and we will be venting atmosphere.
Brunsig: Roll and give them our ventral aspect; we have some ablative armor left on that side.
Helm rolled the ship to the side with such ferocity, Jal felt the sickening lurch in his gut as the inertial dampeners struggled to compensate. His equilibrium wavered. The tactical display swam with noise as each of the enemy vessels closed in like bloodied teeth in a closing maw. They were running on scraps now; every system bleeding out a little more with each passing second. Gods whispering in the spinning of the stars.
The dampeners faltered. Reality bent.
Jal clenched the console, fingers white. His thoughts went to Petra. What a foolish, mortal thing he was, to believe there would always be more time.
Walter lurched forward in the command chair and Jal looked up to see the rift bellowing on final, unnatural howl when, from its throat came a hurtling vessel, burnished steel and light, crowned in running lights and silhouette.
Brunsig: Who—
Risha: Transponder matches the Gorkon, sir. The chroniton signature... that’s it! That’s our Gorkon!
For just a second, Jal stopped moving. Few moments are reserved to watch legends come to life—where the veil between survival and salvation thinned to a gossamer sheen. A Sovereign-class demigod cut through the chaos in roaring engines and cataclysmic fire, equal in grace and sheer immense.
The rift's twisted children recognised the threat. They turned their fury and shrieking metal frenzy on the Gorkon, weapons flared—but each attempt broke harmlessly against golden shields. In return, the Gorkon answered with hell. Phasers carved arcs of energy through the dark, quantum torpedoes shattered twisted outlines with surgical fury.
Jal's breath caught in his chest as the lights on the Triumphant flickered, then died entirely, plunging the Bridge into total darkness.
Only the Hawking's deflector remained, burning like a sun through the gloom, and then it fired. The cascade rippled out in a surge of unreal light, and the edges of the rift began to sink inward. As if the universe had remembered it wasn't meant to be open and leaking.
The Oracle-class limped forward, clawing toward the closing maw.
Then the Tyrellian felt it. An absence. A stillness beneath his feet. He checked the engine status and confirmed the cold dread that had gripped his spine. No rumble. No movement. The void pressed in.
Walter gave a bitter, mirthless laugh.
Risha: We’ve lost warp and impulse, I’m flying on thrusters only, ::her voice cracked in defeat,:: I can’t— we’re not going to make it out.
Jal's hands were already working the tactical console again, trying desperately to push any amount of power they had through the failing hero, but it didn't matter. Systems failed in waves. It wasn't just damage, it was entropy, bleeding in from the rift. The ship couldn't run anymore. It could only fall into the open wound.
The Triumphant shuddered again, hard enough to feel through the bones, and Jal braced for the final volley, a Tyrellian prayer gracing his lips.
Blue shimmered across the viewscreen. Then came the shape—sleek, massive, unmistakable. The Gorkon's belly loomed above them like a star-god rising from the void. A tractor beam locked on and suddenly they were moving.
Dragged upward, pulled from the edge of annihilation. The rift behind them collapsed in a final blaze of multicoloured light, and then—quiet.
Stars.
Just stars.
Risha let out a cry of joy in front and Jal felt the sound rattle through his chest like the aftershock of war drums. Walter slumped in his chair—the man, the myth, the immovable rock in the tide finally done.
Jal didn't say anything as he stood from the tactical console, and rushed to his brother's side.
First Officer
USS Triumphant
G239304JM0