![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holdmyflowerbaby posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
warp_corinthJehan turned in his chair, panic seeping into his tone and bewilderment in his eyes.
"Starfleet-- isn't responding, Captain."
He sounded calm, but he was on the edge of anxiety; weren't they all? The spacial anomaly had just... appeared, as if out of nowhere. Anyone's best guess was that it was a black hole... and that was a best-guest, best-situation scenario. Which wasn't saying much for their odds.
Jehan had called in to report their status, and to ask for aid the moment they'd discovered it, but the comm lines were dead. When he was ordered to compensate the frequency (he was already on it, the Captain barely had the words out of his mouth before his fingers were making music against his conn, dancing at speeds that showed he was intimate with the task at hand... but no amount of intimacy with the way it worked was making it work), he'd done his very best. He'd tried every trick he knew, even tried to patch in an echo-recording on a radio frequency, which... admittedly, probably wouldn't reach Starfleet until a week from now, at best.
...He was totally out of options.
"I put our bearings on the radio-echo, as... as a warning." He gave, tone faltering a little as he turned back to his conn. "For any other ships in the area." As it didn't seem they could do much for themselves, at this point, so citing their location for help would be a fruitless effort.
Well... maybe they could still help themselves, and Jehan wasn't giving up. But his part in this was over. There wasn't much more he could do.
"The distortion is messing with all lines of communication. Permission to tap all remaining power into ship-wide communication? So we don't risk fall-out with Engineering."
He passed a look at Courfeyrac, fretting, but nodded his head slightly, to show he had faith in him. Then looked at Enjolras, and waited for his okay.
"Starfleet-- isn't responding, Captain."
He sounded calm, but he was on the edge of anxiety; weren't they all? The spacial anomaly had just... appeared, as if out of nowhere. Anyone's best guess was that it was a black hole... and that was a best-guest, best-situation scenario. Which wasn't saying much for their odds.
Jehan had called in to report their status, and to ask for aid the moment they'd discovered it, but the comm lines were dead. When he was ordered to compensate the frequency (he was already on it, the Captain barely had the words out of his mouth before his fingers were making music against his conn, dancing at speeds that showed he was intimate with the task at hand... but no amount of intimacy with the way it worked was making it work), he'd done his very best. He'd tried every trick he knew, even tried to patch in an echo-recording on a radio frequency, which... admittedly, probably wouldn't reach Starfleet until a week from now, at best.
...He was totally out of options.
"I put our bearings on the radio-echo, as... as a warning." He gave, tone faltering a little as he turned back to his conn. "For any other ships in the area." As it didn't seem they could do much for themselves, at this point, so citing their location for help would be a fruitless effort.
Well... maybe they could still help themselves, and Jehan wasn't giving up. But his part in this was over. There wasn't much more he could do.
"The distortion is messing with all lines of communication. Permission to tap all remaining power into ship-wide communication? So we don't risk fall-out with Engineering."
He passed a look at Courfeyrac, fretting, but nodded his head slightly, to show he had faith in him. Then looked at Enjolras, and waited for his okay.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-07 09:16 am (UTC)It had appeared out of nowhere, just as they had begun to approach the S.O.S. hail from the small transport ship. They had braced themselves for a trick of the usual nature -- Romulan ships to surround them, a band of pirates seeking more than just fuel and supplies, even a black hole would have been better expected than this.
It hadn't exactly been a black hole, even, that it had appeared so abruptly, pulled them in mercilessly and spat them out in another quadrant. It had seemed almost purposeful, as though it had been triggered for the main object of dragging the Corinth about like a ragdoll before crushing it into its external particles. Courfeyrac had been able to countersteer the careening ship "safely" through its clear center, and they had all braced for ... something, an impact, a painful crushing sensation, their deaths -- none of which ever came.
Luckily, the damage reported had seemed to be more internal and digital than external and physical, as the shields had managed to hold up during the initial battering of debris surrounding the anomaly. Even so, Joly had already reported a handful of cadets only lightly bruised at most, and Feuilly had yet to respond with the distortion to communications.
"Bridge to Engineering. Lt. Feuilly, status report. Do you read? The anomaly appears to be closing fast, and all ideas are welcome to the table as to how we can get back through it."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-07 09:30 am (UTC)Feuilly had just finished his diagnosis of the warp core, and the situation was bleak, at best.
"We're giving off particle debris at a high rate. Suggest jettisoning more of the energy core, and using the debris to try to propel backwards, back into the anomaly. With due respect, I also disagree with the Captain; readings show we are not yet free of the anomaly. Speficially, readings of hull pressure are fluctuating rapidly. Back, or forward; whichever way we go, we will have to do it quickly, to maintain integrity."
He paused, checking over the readings one more time, watching them shift on their axis and turn over, as if the sensors were broken; when he knew very well that they were not; before posing:
"Awaiting your order, Captain. Engineering will compensate for forward thrust, or backwards push."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-07 10:25 am (UTC)A few taps more. "If we were able to direct the ship's proton cannons ahead of us and transfer all but basic systems support to the energy beams, we might be able to create an explosion large enough to push us back through..."
He turned to watch as Enjolras knitted his brows subtly. Two roads, only one opportunity for choice; neither guaranteed any clean or happy sort of success, let alone their survival. To go forward was to remain in one full piece but in what they had managed to determine bordered on Borg airspace, beyond even the furthest reaches of the Federation's grasp; to move backward could end in either their safe return or potential disaster if the anomaly decided to disappear as quickly as it had appeared and had the power to rip the ship to shreds as it faded away.
It was in this moment that Bahorel found himself especially happy he was not captain of this ship.
"We will take our chances heading back in through the anomaly," Enjolras's voice came at last, strong and clear. "There is no saying that we'll have another opportunity back, and we are not in the friendliest of territories. Lt. Bahorel, work with Courfeyrac on maneuvering us into position and setting up the cannons. Feuilly, direct all main power sources but life support and basic systems under Courfeyrac's command, and prepare the ship for backwards push at my order."
"And here we go," Bahorel muttered amusedly under his breath, punching in a couple extra commands before heading over to their navigator's console.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-07 10:35 am (UTC)Agreed, though he was... skeptical about the physics behind using an explosion to propel one back through an anomaly, and hoping that the plasma storm didn't follow.
"Requesting that Lieutenant Bahorel shoot straight; and avoid the core particles. A chain reaction, while very... visually impressive... would not bode well for ship integrity, with power diverted from shields."
That said, he commed out, and got to work, diverting all power to life support, the conn, and yes: Bahorel's phaser canons.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-07 11:36 am (UTC)Talking about anomalies in terms of numbers, though.
There was something he could do.
Over 88.6 terajoules... With the output of the cannons already at a maximum of 40.0 terajoules each, pushing them to the extra tenth of an output might not be so bad; there was only a slim chance that the whole thing would overload. If Bahorel thought he would be able to compensate for that, it should be all right; they wouldn't need them immediately back online afterward, assuming that they didn't somehow blast themselves directly into enemy territory, anyway.
Well, Bahorel would be able to compensate for that; he trusted him that much. He didn't want to think about Romulan or Klingon or Borg ships lying in wait on the other side of that anomaly. That just. No. No, thank you.
But it wasn't the cannons Courfeyrac was worried about. It was whether or not his baby would be able to turn in time -- if at all. The trajectory of the cannons would require them to make a 22.3 degree turn starboard to ensure that they propelled properly back through the anomaly. Their angle of entry had been all wrong, and it was a wonder they hadn't been scraped to pieces at the edges, let alone torn-- oops, wait, not thinking about that again, numbers, okay. Yes. 22.3 degrees starboard. Right.
It was such a risky move. Hull pressure was ranging from 23 to 187 kilotons (if those sensors were even reading correctly anymore) and any sort of movement not directly forward or directly back might tear them apart before they even had time to charge up the first blast, let alone release debris from the energy core.
Though... Perhaps from their current angle of entry, he would have to compensate with the cannon fire directed all of 36.1 degrees to their aft and hope that the gravitational pull of Corinth's shape would be able to handle the rest of the work. The trajectory of--
"de Courfeyrac! I'm good with numbers, but, Christ, you're going to need to slow the fuck down!" Bahorel was giving him an exasperated look, as though he had been standing there at the secondary console tapping through as quickly as he could. He muttered under his breath something along the lines of, "First Pointy-Ears gets all high and mighty -- like he can hit a 10 m diameter target 800 km away without the use of a lock, that smug bastard --, and then I have the Human Graphing Calculator sitting here about to spout physics formulas out at me."
"A-ah, right, sorry about that, lieutenant," he finally managed, tapping at his console again to complete the final touches.
"Cannons at 100% charge," Bahorel called out. "We're taking it to 110% now."
"Acknowledged," Enjolras replied, and they watched with bated breath as the numbers rose steadily.
"103.0%. 103.4%; temperatures exceeding safety maximums at 2125 Kelvin; adjusting fluid capacity in cooling tanks to counteract overheating."
Wait. No.
"104.2%; temperatures holding at 2132 Kelvin..."
There was something missing.
"108.7%; temperatures reaching critical temperatures at 2311 Kelvin; I can't get it down any lower! I'm going to take the shot...!"
He'd calculated it wrong.
"It's not--" Courfeyrac started, just as Bahorel began to push him out of the way.
"Brace yourselves!" Enjolras bellowed.
There was a white-hot sensation against his forehead and shoulder, the smell of something burning, and a heavy weight pressing against his chest.
Then nothing as the back of his head hit the floor hard.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-09 05:09 am (UTC)He knew his stomach was going to lurch before it did. Knowing couldn't have prepared him for it. There was a blinding light, blue in element and so hot and searing that it burned white through his closed eyes, as the ship emitted phaser beams and warp particles... at the wrong angle. They swept back along the anomaly, broadsiding it with terrible force, rather than propelling into it. The hull buckled, red alert seethed. He heard bodies hit the floor, felt the heat on his skin from an explosion along the right where the consoles must have overheated...
He didn't know when he hit the floor himself, but he remembered getting up, gravity swaying and sagging around his field of vision as he pushed to fight against it to stay upright. Vaguely, he felt something stinging along his cheek, faint bleeding against his collar bone, and one wrist felt a little bit tricky-- but he was whole. Uninjured, ready, on his feet, thinking.
He took in the scene.
To the front, there were the swelling curves of the anomaly as it began to shut in on itself, beautiful and terrible. To the left, he spotted Jehan crawling back into his seat with a startled look, tousled, but not harmed. He would have looked for Enjolras next, taken full sizing of him, if Jehan hadn't paused halfway into his seat, staring hard to the right with suddenly wide, horried eyes.
Combeferre turned.
The minor explosion had come from the main systems consol. Navigation and Weapons. Bahorel was slumped to the side of his own chair, face down. The computer monitor smoked where the screen lay, cracked. Beside him, slumped against the super-heated, sparking conn was Courfeyrac. He noted the blood matting one side of his hair and felt his own go cold.
"Engineering to bridge--"
Feuilly's voice cut in against the mental noise. As he delivered a chilling status report, Combeferre didn't hesitate to get to work on his own. He tapped his badge.
"Feuilly, hold. Spare some of the life support from deck six--" He could see on a blinking monitor that that sector, luckily mainly housing auxiliary quarters and thus none of the crew at the moment, had been severely compromised in the move, "--to get transport back online. Two to beam directly to sick bay, from bridge. Get warp core integrity back. I'm going to perform a manual override on navigation right now to get us held still. We're still at a drift. I'll be fiddling with impulse up here, you work on containment; and get me that beam-down. Now."
Feuilly didn't halt for a moment in his reply.
"Affirmative, Commander." And cut out.
It was but a moment later, Rene still looking on at them, that Courfeyrac and Bahorel faded in a blue glimmer of light, and were gone. Bridge crew moved in to settle the fire, and only then did Combeferre move back to his own console, setting the manual overrides in to figure out where in space they were, how far from earth, and what percentage of impulse it would take to get the ship to stop its axis spin with the warm core offline.
He tried, for the moment, to focus on duty. Not on the bad feeling that was growing, blooming, redoubling in the pit of his stomach. And not on Jehan, who was half-heartedly trying to patch through a distress call on Federation lines, while simultaneously trying to hide the call from unsecure networks... hands shaking, eyes red, and gaze constantly flicking to Enjolras. Breathing just the faintest bit ragged with worry.
Who could possibly brace themselves for what had just happened?
no subject
Date: 2013-11-11 06:18 am (UTC)"Acknowledged; fire!" Enjolras raised his arm to shield his eyes as the twin beams boosted through the debris and started a chain reaction of explosions that began to propel them forward.
"It's not--"
--the right angle, he realized too late, eyes flying wide as they careened toward the anomaly's edges, through the peppering of debris that had every right to pierce through their ship.
"Brace yourselves!" Enjolras bellowed, grabbing hold of one of the poles that supported the bannister above him, eyes closing just as Bahorel leapt forward and pushed Courfeyrac out of his seat just seconds too late. The bloodcurdling crack and heat rushed in to leave both of his ears ringing and his face flushed from the heat, while the lurching of the ship shoved him hard against the platform and created sparks behind his eyes.
Somehow, he managed to keep on his feet, though his legs felt like jelly beneath him and his right shoulder had been wrenched out of place from the torque it had maintained in keeping him upright. Enjolras heard the faint mumble of a voice shouting to his left and recognized it as Combeferre responding to another muffled voice over the comm. With a pop, his hearing returned and sprung back into usefulness.
"... and get me that beam-down. Now."
"Affirmative, Commander."
Turning to Combeferre and nodding grimly at him in thanks for taking action, he watched as Courfeyrac and Bahorel glimmered away from the Bridge. Before they had even completely phased out, he began to bark out orders automatically, falling immediately into a comforting rhythm of protocol, of all that disaster simulation training -- this was what they were built to do; this was where he thrived, where he knew how to react.
Med bay was past maximum capacity; prepare auxiliary quarters for the overflow. Shields were down and the hull breach damage had been considerable; get them back online as soon as possible and organize a team for vital repairs stat. The phaser cannons were burnt out beyond repair; they would have to wait until after all structural damages had been tended to, as their remaining weaponry should be more than enough to fend off most scavengers in the meanwhile. Combeferre was running locational queries, and he awaited any progress as he ran down the rest of the ship's to-do list.
"Prouvaire--" Enjolras turned to Jehan and caught his panicked eyes just as the communications officer turned to look at him blearily, pale and trembling. His expression softened, and he exchanged an understanding glance with his friend. "Head to Sick Bay and help them sort out the relocation; the rest of the medical staff should have enough on their hands to deal with, and we can take over the rest from here."
He approached the console and moved in a guise to sit down himself, and called to Jehan as he passed, "Joly is very good at what he does and will tell you how you can best help." A little more quietly, he reassured, "They will be all right."
Once the poet had finally left, he sat at the communications console and set himself to the task of trying to pull his right shoulder back into place while he monitored the other's handiwork and quickly drafted other possible methods of getting that distress signal out safely.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-12 06:56 pm (UTC)He'd let the Captain know location as soon as he did.
Jehan all but gasped when he heard his name, fingers flattening against his screen a little and eyes warily moving backwards to observe Enjolras, to prepare himself for orders he may not want to hear, possibly couldn't accomplish. So when their eyes locked and Lexi's own gaze softened, he settled a little, in his own heart. He knew what was coming before it did (or hoped) and was out of his seat with a gawky nod before Enjolras had begun to walk towards him.
"Yes, Sir."
He had the fortitude to remember to say that, on his way out. A shadow of words, the way 'they will be all right' was. Well... they just had to be.
He had wanted to smile his thanks at his friend for this leeway, this allowance... but found that his mouth only knew how to fret right now, over two very dear lives.
He loaded himself directly into the turbolift, and was off.
Which was a blessing; if there were any such thing, today, right now; as far as Combeferre observed. Because he had their location up, at long last, gathered by ejecting radiation overloads on other decks and in engineering against nearby planets and stars, and matcing the geography it brought to life against star maps.
35,000 light years away from home.
Warp 10 was 1,721 times the speed of light. Maximum warp would mean 5.4 light years per day. 1971 light years in a year. 18 years. They were 18 years away from home at top speeds, which would be impossible to maintain securely. The nacelle coils and intermix chamber couldn't deal with that kind of plasma output for more than a day, much less eighteen years.
It was not something he would have wanted Prouvaire (or even Marcel...) to hear.
Looking up from his console, he informed:
"Captain. We are 35,000 light years from Federation Space. No other ships in the area. I have uploaded our current Star Chart and locale to your console. Permission to head to engineering?" Due to the mission he was supposed to have been on, he'd been expanding his knowledge of Warp Core technology and experimental plasma science at an overbearing rate over the past few months. "If they're fixing the warp core, I might have a few modifications to suggest." Should he tell the truth, or no? Top secret information, but... only for the next two weeks.
They wouldn't be home by then.
He bowed his head slightly.
"I think I can fit it with experimental apparatus that may allow us to breach Warp 11 or 12, once the ship is stable."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 11:43 am (UTC)He stared at the console with a tightened jaw, not wanting to believe what he was looking at, unfamiliar star systems, so far from whence they had come, but the scanners wouldn't lie. They couldn't have…
But it would explain why they weren't able to get through to Starfleet; that signal would take a very long time to make it back home, let alone provide them with a return call. Enjolras cut it immediately, for there was no use wasting the effort and instead putting up a signal flare for who knew what lurked amongst these stars.
Something tugged at him, a ping of déjà vu or nostalgia, even, to pair with the sudden sense of foreboding. It wasn't right -- on more than one level. Enjolras did not believe in coincidences, yet it would be absurd to think that this was supposed to be the ditch in the road, the flat tire; that they had enough provisions on board to last their small crew for at least a few months, if not longer when well-rationed; that this was so close to that first set of stress tests where he and Marcel had met in prep school, which they had both failed to complete the first and second times.
But it had happened once before, the events of which even that test had been fashioned after, so perhaps there was nothing more beyond the superficial similarity to the disappearance of the USS Voyager. It was unlikely, but it wasn't impossible, after all.
Besides, to claim that there was motive behind this mission would be mutiny -- treason, even.
Marcel would not take to that well at all, and Rene would be furious. Perhaps Jehan or Bahorel or even Feuilly would be willing to bat the idea around, but he would require far more proof before he would try such infantile hypotheticals.
Closing the door on those ideas would have to settle his thoughts for now. Hopefully he would not have to dwell upon them again any time soon.
Enjolras looked back up at Combeferre, ready to give the affirmative, when he saw it. He recognized that expression, the following head tilt downward, the shifting of his gaze, the subtle admission; Alexis had grown to identify it over the past few years, had called him out on it on more than one occasion, so he knew there was more to this story than Rene seemed willing to let on.
But now was not the time to be suspicious of the reading habits of his Commander, especially if those extra study sessions would help them get home just a little bit faster. Every moment counted.
Enjolras pulled his own expression from the trace of a friend's curious frown to a professional's sharper one.
"Permission granted, Commander. You have full clearance to do what you must; I trust both your and Lt. Feuilly's judgment on this one."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 11:51 am (UTC)For what it was worth, he was grateful that crises came before questioning.
MED BAY.
Date: 2013-11-09 07:46 am (UTC)He tapped his comm badge with a grim expression on his face as he finally found the other man's body -- Clark was still breathing, at least, but he was out cold --, and called hopefully, "Deck Six to Transport, do you read? Two to beam to Med Bay."
There was no reply.
"Deck Six to Transport or Engineering, do you copy? ... Anyone at all?"
The static on the other end proved that communications were still down on their floor, so Bossuet set to carefully lifting the man over his shoulder.
They had been on their way down to the hangar to prepare for what they'd thought was to be a cut-and-dry rescue mission. Once they had crossed through the deck, all comm badges and tricorders had stopped functioning and the entire ship had shuddered and shook as though it were being sucked into something it would never be able to fit through, threatening to spiral out of control. None of their group of four had seemed hurt (just a little roughed up from the jolting surprise, or a little seasick at worst) after the quake finally ended, but the pair had volunteered to try to get systems back online manually and at least run a heat-signature-based life forms scan in case any stragglers had been less fortunate throughout the ship. Their companions had confirmed no such sightings and moved to the fifth deck for a similar sweep and to see if they could contact the Bridge and get a status report, while Clark had insisted that he was nearly done redistributing the protocols to manual override.
Not long afterward, the two of them had lurched forward and then stumbled back with the worst possible whiplash as Corinth crashed through what felt like a solid glass wall. While Bossuet had been turned away and crumpled naturally against the wall beneath the console, the explosion had hit Clark full to his shoulder and back, sending him flying to the floor and knocking him unconscious.
Bossuet groped the wall with his free hand to lead himself and his burden to the stairwell, but the combination of smog and thinning air were beginning to take their toll on his mind and body. Life support was being taken to a minimum, he could understand vaguely, and he sure as hell hoped that Muriel and Prentiss had been right about no one else having been caught down here.
After what seemed like a lifetime of putting one foot before the other, muscles screaming uncharacteristically quickly from the lack of oxygen despite the gradual clearing atmosphere within and about his head, Bossuet found himself approaching the Med Bay at last. All aflutter with motion and excitement, the sight of his goal propelled him forward. He shifted the weight on his back one last time and surged forward at double-time with a final burst of adrenaline.
"Doctor," he said to the back of the nearest medical personnel the moment he strode through the doorway. "Minor burns and glass shrapnel from an exploded console; he's out cold, but the smoke probably didn't do either of us any good regardless. Where can I put him?"
Re: MED BAY.
Date: 2013-11-10 04:37 pm (UTC)Charts upon charts. Structures upon structures. Recommendations upon recommendations.
Solutions.
By the time transport was back online and people were materializing into medical in flashes of blue and white, he was moving through sick bay like his feet knew the tread of it. He had the schematics in his memory, despite not yet being familiar with the setup of the Corinth proper. He looked at wounds and knew which hypo to ask for, without hesitation. He saw burns and knew what degree they were without the medical tricorder, which were already seizing with infection, which had blistered into the deep tissue, which required sleep, and which required pain medication to deal with in an orderly manner.
As the numbers rose; five, then eleven in no time at all, now somewhere near twenty without him remembering all of their entries; he constantly shuffled the importance of each case, the severity of the injury and the availability of treatment, determining a critical order that continued to shift, like a puzzle that couldn't decide on its face. Joly was in his element, without knowing that it might have been. He was making requests of his head Nurse and their second assistant scarcely without realizing he spoke at all, in the language of a professional doctor. He had activated the EMH at some point, with express orders to tend to the least brutal of injuries, cuts and liaisons, and to keep them to the left, off of the beds, to make toom.
So when two more were beamed down, directly onto cots, faces a real mess and pips signifying a high rank; from the bridge even-- was that Marcel...?; Joly's breath caught and he paused for only half a moment. Long enough to have another newcomer at his ear, from behind, reporting status.
Listening with a listless attention to detail, both lazy and acute, brain moving at a million parsecs a moment, he felt the annoyance stick in the back of his throat, grating against his tone as he finally began to speak, making it a little raw, a little higher. Whoever this was, they'd just wasted approximately 6.7 seconds telling him something he might have already known, with a glance or a quick scan. And the remedial action was obvious. To him, anyway.
"We're overcrowding; put the dud on bed six. We'll check the shrapnel didn't knick an artery. Bed two," Which had three other men with minor problems waiting idly for service, "for you. Quick lung scan and we'll oxygenate the tissues. A hypo to break up the mucous." All but huffing as he surveyed again the work ahead of him, a little derailed by pushing his mental process to the realm of out-loud, he called, "'Chetta, can you take the patient on bed tw--"
And turning to face the newcomer at last, raising a brow up at the taller Ensign, in his smoke-stained red shirt, sweat on his brow, and his friend tossed over his shoulder, Joly made a pinched face which then faltered. A pause, a skip, a beat.
"--bed six."
He decided, before giving Bossuet just a faint smile.
"I'll get bed two."
And turning back around at a clipped pace, he went to see to Courfeyrac.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-11 02:02 am (UTC)He listened with a bit of a grimace as the adrenalin swiftly transformed into buckling knees and a shortness of breath, when that face turned to him, sour, then just a little bit sweet. A beat, a skip, and a pause.
He decided on a faint "Oh," and cocked a grin at Joly.
Nodding his acknowledgement, Bossuet made his way to the sixth bed in line with a renewed strength that bubbled from his amusement. He carefully deposited Clark on the aforementioned bed and wandered back to bed two, dodging a hobbling ensign as she was rushed in his direction.
It had been three and a half years since he had last seen the young med student that first night. Marcel had rushed them so quickly out of the bar ("I win!" he'd cackled gleefully, to which the bald man had returned, "I'd've only needed another moment, too," receiving a wicked "Oh, so soon~? ... Ow! Pfff," in turn), that he had forgotten to ask for his full name, let alone his number. When that week had come to a close, and the medical students were sure to be done with their exams, Bossuet had wandered back into that bar to seek his new friend out -- or would have, if it had still been open. A sign had been tacked onto its doorway to indicate a sudden health advisory warning, with little further detail, effective as of the evening following their first contact.
Courfeyrac had proven a sympathetic if useless social butterfly, as he'd shrugged unhelpfully when asked if he knew the student's full name or a means of getting in touch with him again, and soon began to pull him to different bars closer to the main Academy edge of campus when every night continued to prove fruitless. "The new bartender can't seem to tell a lime from a lemon anyway," Bossuet had scoffed lightly at last, and joined his friend in better-tended gardens for the following years.
Yet here he was, that charming doctor with a penchant for a good pun, as though time had stood still and simply changed his garments for the season. Perhaps this particular occasion would see a far sharper harvest than the ones he had been prepared to settle for, and he was more than happy to find out.
And here Bossuet'd thought it'd already been a good enough day that he was still alive and kicking.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-11 04:11 am (UTC)Going to the head of Courfeyrac's cot, he flipped the tricorder open and pressed it close, hovering it above his face and frowning with concern. While it might look like a serious case of Symbalene blood burn, it was more certainly a partial-thickness burn type. A conn must have overheated, blown smoke up into his face along with carbon, as he'd come down against it, hard. The nose looked fractured and a little bloodied, and blisters were showing along the dermis where the monitor had likely sparked up against the skin. Unpleasant, yes, in the very extreme, surely! But he could fix it. That, he could.
Grabbing a hypo from a wheeled desk, one that was loaded with enough juice keep Courfeyrac surely out in a dead-faint while administering anesthesia by way of the neck, Joly got started. He slathered a salve onto his face, which got to work right away, lessening the appearance of burst vessels and disinfecting the area. For the reticular burns he administered a second hypo, loading it with a drug cocktail one for breaking down the gasses, to avoid acidosis; a thinner, to prevent blood clots; and a cooling agent, to sooth the lower layers of the skin. Since he assumed the cause of the injuries was electrical fire and wire flare (based solely on the blister ridges), he checked for a cardiac arrhythmia next. Not a murmur! Good, good...
Courfeyrac was doing well. He'd pull through for sure, in better shape than ever.
Checking that the analgesics levels were still in place to keep the pain at bay so that he wouldn't wake during the remainder of the procedure, Joly fixed his nose while he monitored Marcel's pH levels, wanting them to return to normal before he applied the debridement, and followed it up with a simple skin graft. With an Osteogenic Stimulator in hand a moment later, he guided the tool along the fractured ridge on one side of Courfeyrac's nose, then down the bridge. It mended as it went, expertly. He felt iffy about a possible hairline in his patient's upper cheekbone (he'd seen some evidence of it in the burst blood vessel's concentration around the uppermost left jut), and gave it a thorough sweep thereafter... just in case. A precaution.
Theo was in his element here. He began to see the healing take hold and felt a cool, cloying sort of relief, a little ditty of pride playing across his heart strings as a faint smile plucked at the edge of his mouth. The air grew lighter and if it were because he breathed easier, or because he remembered now to breathe at all, he did not know.
"One more after the dermabrasion and graft, Monsieur the Eagle." He informed the face he recognized a moment ago, a few beds away, with a fast-easing tone and a nod towards Bahorel, to show him who the more pressing case was. "I do not graft hair onto my patients here, but breathe easy! You'll have your wind pipes as clean as a whistle in a moment, and then the Eagle will be a song bird."
Assured, rolling his shoulders back a little and wiggling in place as he set the tool above Courfeyrac's face. He did know this one, indeed he did! And he'd be a grump if Joly didn't get this quite right. The face was quite a point of charm in general, after all. Especially so, here!
"'Chetta, can you drop another subdermal analgesic spray by bed four?" The one just behind him, where Bahorel lay inert... or so he thought. So he'd like to keep it, as he'd be tending there next!
For the moment, he took a deep breath and calibrated the aluminium oxide crystals on the surgical support frame's detachable unit to 100 micrometres, paused, hands and tool hovering just above Courfeyrac's face, rolled his shoulders back again a second time, and nodded.
Okay. He could do this. For sure.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 08:32 am (UTC)"Fireworks have impressed the man, but thanks for trying," was the dry remark. It was just business, after all, and the scuffle hadn't even been his fault that time. But he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy a good fight every now and again.
Babet raised a brow and smirked as the scan completed. "And thorough this time, too. You're going to catch some eyes at this rate, Bahorel -- faster if you would just lose the modest act already."
It was Bahorel's turn to flash a twist of a grin this time. He teased, "Who said it wasn't all part of the plan? Catch you off guard, pin you down, one by one until I'm king? You're all a predictable enough sort; shouldn't be too hard, right?"
The doctor barked a laugh and headed back toward the doorway, careful to step around the pools of blood and their associated corpses. "You may have come a long way since you joined us, boy, but you've still got a lot to learn."
Babet paused as the doors slid open for him and turned. "So don't bother heading upstairs for the children. I like you well enough, so it won't go in the report, but it really doesn't do to leave loose ends untied. The Patron-Minette runs a tight ship, after all.
"I'm sure you understand."
Bahorel's eyes snapped open as he bolted upright to blinding Med Bay lights, the muffled shuffle of what looked like a war scene sending his brain into overdrive. Blood, wounded, injured -- but none dead, none as young as eight and twelve and thirteen. There was a woman, a nurse, standing near him holding something (he did not recognize her at the moment, though she did look a smidge familiar, and only the shock at such a stark contrast in surroundings and time stopped him from trying to disarm the poor thing) and a doctor standing over--
"Courfeyrac!"
He remembered now. Where he was, who these people were, what had happened. The fear and adrenaline rushed away to be replaced by concern for the young pilot, and Bahorel demanded, "Doctor, is he going to be all right?"
He had to be, for Jehan's sake.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 09:02 am (UTC)If Theo's nerves weren't frayed already, then the alarming frequency of 'things popping up behind him, loudly' in the last five minutes was doing him in.
Shooting a harassed look over his shoulder, Joly plucked up the empty hypo he'd just used for the cocktail and lobbed it harmlessly at Bahorel's head. His face seemed fine, anyway, so if there was a concussion (at worst) then maybe a little cool metal would remind him of it.
"Not if you spook me halfway to the Delta Quadrant! Sit down, Sir, and let me do my--"
"Ambrose!" Jehan burst in the main doors, scuttling past a man hobbling on a wounded knee, and tossing himself, with force, towards to edge of his friend's bed. Whatever assignment he had was lost, momentarily, in the rush of relief at seeing Bahorel awake.
Joly, for his part, turned a little pale and gave a long-suffering sigh.
"This is Med Bay, not the Screen Actor's Guild..." Mumbled, to which Musichetta gave him a soft pat as she passed, picking up the empty hypo he'd chucked.
Jehan, for his part, was at Bahorel's side now (having made efficient time and now seemingly stuck to his cot by the very whitened knuckles that were fastened around the starchy mattress) but his eyes were elsewhere, and his mind was too. It was not a difficult leap to make; because his gaze was predictably pinned to the next bed over, to the mangle that was Courfeyrac's face as Joly prepared to start on it again, with chilly, fretting composure and mute, haggard concern.
"I'm glad you're awake, Amby..." Murmured, a little quietly, eyes still trailing the mottled, angry red lines of Marcel's face.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 12:43 pm (UTC)"Jehan! Abandoning your post for just a little scratch or two?" he smiled as warmly as he could, settling back onto the bed with a bit of a wince as burnt knuckles brushed against the coarse fabric. "I'm so honoured!"
The sight of the other's relieved face drained the fight from him, and the painkilling adrenaline with it. His arms and a shoulder were lightly burned from when he'd tried to push Courfeyrac away, and he'd taken a couple scrapes to the face and a deep gash running from his temple to just over his brow. It had finally begun to clot, but the hypo spray hadn't done much to aid the process, as it strengthened the flow of blood dribbling sluggishly past his eye.
"It'll take a lot more than that to keep me or one of my students down," Bahorel reassured, reaching out with his less affected hand and gingerly holding it over Jehan's clenched fist. He turned his head carefully to glance over at Joly working again, just as he blocked their view of Courfeyrac's face. "Even if that student is one of my least proficient. Seriously, I don't know what you see in that noodly figure of his; thank god you're one of my better students or I'd be terribly worried for the pair of you. Send someone off to make sure you're both okay walking back to your rooms in the dark of the night and all that. Do it myself, even; can't trust anyone these days, especially when the person you're thinking about assigning that task to is the unluckiest eagle on the planet. No offense, Bossuet."
"None taken," the other man replied dryly, if amusedly.
Babbling interrupted, Bahorel squeezed Jehan's hand gently to say what he actually meant: Everything will be okay.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 04:19 am (UTC)Joly piped, but from there on was quiet. He assumed that his hypo-kick had made its point, and if Bahorel was willing to keep his voice just a little down to levels that might not entirely jolt their (very! quite!) new CMO, he could focus on Courfeyrac's mottled face, and have it taken care of in a jiff: before he woke up. And before anyone else bled out too much, all over his nice, new, previously clean med bay floor...
While Joly got to work at long last, after having pointedly taken Bossuet's side, Jehan let out a breath that was meant to be a laugh, meant to be good cheer. But as he folded his hand over the one of Bahorel's that held his clenched fist; all gentleness, all carefulness in that touch; he could not help the lines of his face from looking grim, could not unpin his eyes from the slight curve of Joly's back, which hid the unrecognizable lines of Marcel's face.
"Noodly..." Repeated, softly, thinking for a moment about how right that was. The too-long neck and the thin, under-defined arms. The way that having too much neck gave him more to nuzzle into, bury his nose against, and how surprisingly strong a grip those lank arms had from behind, when they clung, in surprise greeting.
He wanted Marcel to be okay. Now.
But for now...
Eyeing Bahorel at last, he gave a more stern look.
"Abandoning? No, I was re-assigned. I have to help set up excess flow, in the room next door. Anyone in here who is able-bodied to some degree can help, including escorts who took the wounded." Piped up, so that the room could hear him, not just Ambrose. "Anyone with a non-vital injury can relocate there, and I can administer a few hypos for area-specific pain." A beat, then to Bahorel. "I got a B-plus in First Aid 101, you know. Elective Course. Anyway, you need to lay down. Or else. You totally have a concussion. If not from the explosion, then um... from the doctor. So. Rest. Okay?" He gave his hand a squeeze and looked unsure a moment.
He should get to it now, his job...
Instead, he passed another uneasy glance towards Marcel, on his cot.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 07:54 am (UTC)In the meanwhile, Bahorel turned back to Jehan and gave him a wry grin at the steady expression. The kid still took him too seriously sometimes, but he knew there was a lot more on Jehan's mind than a feeble elbow to ribs. Though that wouldn't stop him from trying to keep up the cheer as he followed his instructions, putting on a bit of a pout. "Did you now? And here I'd hoped you ran on down just for lil' ol' me."
He watched as the others slowly filed out the door; even Bossuet turned to help escort some of the men and women to the next room, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically at Jehan as he brought up the end of the line supporting a science cadet with the latter's partner.
As though the room thinning out brought a fresh breath of life to the room, Courfeyrac's eyelashes (or what was left of them) began to flutter, sluggishly followed by a dull sort of pain building in the place between his brows as they tried to frown.
Pain. A chill. The sound of voices, and the tingling sensation of something abrasive against his skin. He felt rather than heard that gentle voice he so loved to hear, murmuring in his ear as they slipped into bed.
An explosion, he'd said...? What had happened, exactly? He was lying down, and he would rest, if Jehan said to. He was safe here; this was okay; no need to panic. (Good, because he was too exhausted to panic. Why couldn't he open his eyes, move his lips? Everything seemed so slow, and so cold.)
Random numbers floated serenely by in his head.
Marcel ventured to speak, though his voice barely came out as a croak, dry, parched, vocal chords feeling like sandpaper against his throat. He swallowed hard, tried to lick his lips but found his tongue also trapped there without any moisture. They were chapped, anyway, and it would all do him no good. But he had to call for him, know he was okay, let him know he was okay...
"Jehan...?"
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 06:11 pm (UTC)They were French, and he was Jehan Prouvaire. Rank be damned.
"I would have, you know." Murmured, knowing it was 'out of line' to say so, but.... but oh well. "Just for lil' ol' you." A nod and he began to trail away. "Don't give the doctor a hard time, B." Noted, about to collect a first aid box when, in the corner of his hearing, he caught...
His name?
Blinking, stiffening, hand hovering over the kit, he felt his breath catch.
So did Joly, who jumped back mid-abrasion (oh gods, no one should ever, ever wake up, mid-abrasion! If burns looked bad, skinned looked... er... worse?) eyes a little wide. Hadn't he... administered the correct amount of sedative? How-?
"C-chetta!"
Musichetta glanced up from her own patient and made a face. They were running low on handy sedatives and needed to mix more.
"The one for Bahorel." She suggested, lightly. The one he hadn't gotten to use. Joly gave a sharp nod and went to grab for it, but Jehan was in motion then, rushing to Marcel's bedside.
"Wait! Not yet, he asked for me."
"You need to be setting up the overflow ba--"
"Wait." Jehan insisted, with a cutting look at Joly... who sighed through his nose and nodded. "Half a minute." Then began to mumble something about hypocrites and not harassing doctors as he checked the abrasion tool's calibration.
Jehan went around the other side of the bed and carefully slipped his hand under Courfeyrac's, holding it in his palm.
"Marcel? I'm right here." Gave, gently, under his breath. "I'm right here, and you're going to be okay. I promise. Just--" One look at his face made Jehan's stomach roil slightly, with pity for the pain he must be in. "Just don't open your eyes."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 07:18 pm (UTC)"I know," he smiled softly at his young friend, lifting his hand to follow Jehan's in a lingering grasp as he pulled away at last. "And I'll certainly try. So long as he doesn't try throwing more things at my face again, the little--"
The tense postures of his friend and of the doctor confirmed that he hadn't been imagining that sound, and he turned to look, too. Courfeyrac was ever so slightly flexing his fingers; carefully, in case they were injured; slowly, because he was still at least somewhat sedated.
"C-chetta!"
Bahorel already had the hypo on hand, ready to pass it forward, having moved automatically before he realized it would pull open another missed gash along his side. He growled that time as the steady throbbing suddenly became sharp pain, and he clenched his jaw tight as he finally completed the pass to Joly.
If the doctor were to have noticed his pale complexion and the sudden burst of sweat upon his brow and to appear to be thinking up other ways to anaesthetize/sedate Courfeyrac, Bahorel would shake his head grimly and interrupt that thought process between clenched teeth, "I've been through a lot worse than this. He'll need it a helluva lot more if you haven't even gotten through the dermabrasion yet; wouldn't put it past that one to be a screamer, really."
And he would be right, too, as the sensation of white-hot pain began to register against Marcel's nerve endings. He tightened his grip as best he could on Jehan's hand and tried his best not to start panicking again, let his words wash over him like a sweet balm, took slow and even breaths that were in actuality more short and laboured than he remembered breathing ever being. He couldn't help but try to open his eyes in contrary to the other's request, but doing so just hurt more, though he soon found that trying to squeeze them shut in response only made the pain worse.
"Jehan, I can't... What happened? Is this Med Bay; is that Joly? Are we safe? We..." The memory of his deep miscalculation slowly began to dawn on him, and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. "...we didn't make it through, did we?"
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 07:38 pm (UTC)Taking the hypo like a hawk snatching a small animal from a much bigger one, with nerve and annoyance both piquing, Joly calculated that Jehan had about twenty seconds left. Good! Gave him time to get HIS med bay back in order.
"One hypo, two people, Lieutenant. Not a trick they teach in med school, but on the combat req." That was all the warning Bahorel got. Tossing the hypo to the dull side, the side that didn't apply the injection, Joly then struck out with all the force he had in his lithe right arm... and banged the edge of it right below Bahorel's ear. He knew a lot about the human body, which had been the only reason he passed the non-elective combat skills workshops. That little bit of a lightswitch-pressure point just where jaw, neck, and ear met, hit at exactly that angle?
Worked better than a sedative. And if he'd been through worse...
"Hmph!"
Jehan didn't even look up. He felt the weak squeeze of Courfeyrac's hand and his heart tightened with it, clenching.
"Oh, Marcel..." Though the questions were soft, he made them out, the logic that connected them, from one to the other. Biting his lip, he leaned down, carefully, to kiss his arm. He hoped... he hoped it didn't hurt. He tried to be soft about it, on a patch of uniform that looked unblemished. "This is Med Bay. Joly is taking care of you; you'll be fine. We're safe. No casualties." None yet, anyway. None reported that he knew of. None he'd tell Marcel about, if he did. "...we made it in one piece." Not home, no. But safe, for now.
"Please rest. The doctor is going to put you under again, while he finishes. Try to relax..."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 09:13 pm (UTC)boyman: 2; grizzled mercenary "war" veteran: 0. Bahorel went out with the dawning revelation of "Oh, no, you didn't, you little motherf--" flashing in his eyes, but without much other response as he fell back onto the cot, out cold.The tumult beside him didn't bother Marcel at all, though, for all he could think about was the almost wheezing sound of his short breaths, the strangely numb and simultaneously mind-numbingly painful sensations spreading from face to ears and neck and chest. What anchored him most, though, was Jehan's voice, that gentle kiss, that strong grip in his.
"Okay, good. That's ... good," he murmured, relieved, even just a little, that no one had died because-- because of him. It hadn't yet processed that they had not gotten back through the anomaly, but it sounded like it was mostly good news, and that was all that mattered. He hadn't killed anyone with his stupid mistake. "Yeah, Joly is a good doctor; the best. My sister used to talk about him sometimes, the genius kid in her classes..." Marcel's lilted voice trailed off, and his grip loosened just a little as he faded away for a moment.
Then he was back, fighting the intense desire to drown in a deep, dark sleep. He tried another helpful squeeze again, and that might be an attempt at a small smile; Marcel still had to be strong for Jehan, had to be there for him, too. "I'm... I'll be okay. Don't worry too much; that pretty face of yours doesn't need those wrinkles so early. I'm not scared anymore, knowing that you're safe, too."
But he hesitated a little, as he realized what his own must look like that Jehan couldn't even kiss him properly, that he couldn't feel the majority of it, let alone move much of it at all. So he couldn't help but croak out softly, a touch of uncertainty colouring his words, "You'll... you'll still be here? When I'm better?"
Ah, he had meant when he was awake, but he couldn't bring himself to correct himself now. To hell if those words weren't still true.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 09:27 pm (UTC)Oh, wait. That would be him out here, in who-knows-where space.
H M P H. Make that, three points.
Jehan listened to Marcel ramble with a slow, gentle smile, the edges all worry, all sympathy. When he squeezed, Jehan laced their fingers, breathing a laugh at the story about his sister, and humming his agreement when Courfeyrac tried to be the strong one, tried to puff himself up and turn his concern back onto Jehan himself.
He'd always known that Marcel was strong. Just... not in the usual way. So it came as no surprise to him when beneath those brave words, the charm and the humor, came the crux of it. As generously bleeding, as wounded-dove as his face was, the truth that he'd deduced, found fear in, and now begged for comfort on.
Oh, he'd never beg. Not really. But there was that subtle whine to his voice, the lack of absurdness...
Jehan was known to cry. What better time to emote, to well up with overflowing sadness, with deep, unbridled emotion than when your boyfriend's face was oozing onto a cot, blistered in the places where it wasn't missing so much skin that muscle shown through, asking from between lips pulled taught by rubbery, too-dark patches if you'd still stay with him, during it? After it?
Jehan never thought that Courfeyrac was questioning his loyalty. He was just having a flagging, failing moment of crushing self-doubt. It wasn't about Jehan; and Jehan had no intention of making it about himself, wrinkles or no.
If he could have kissed his face, he would have. Instead, he rubbed the pad of his finger along Courfeyrac's palm in a graceful arch, slow and soothing, then repeated it.
"I'm here now, aren't I? I'll be here again when you wake up. And after. And forever." A slow smile. "Is it okay if Joly puts you out now? So you'll get better faster. I'll stay until you're asleep, all right? I promise."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 10:31 pm (UTC)Bearing the burden of responsibility for such an ending would thus have to be on him alone, for how could he ever fault another for his own failures?
It took a certain someone to be able to accept Marcel's many idiosyncracies, his absurd sense of chivalry, that solid heart of gold on his sleeve, and not seek to take advantage of him in the worst ways possible; he never dreamed that that would be something anyone would be so malicious as to even try to do. Yet trusting others had never been his weakness (though it had certainly been his biggest fault, as to be expected); it was trusting himself that proved a different ball game entirely.
So when he felt Jehan smile, heard it in his voice, knew that he understood with those words, Marcel's heart threatened to burst.
Forever, he'd said.
"I like the sound of that," Marcel mumbled at last, wishing he could see Jehan's beloved face, kiss those beautiful lips, smile up at him with that twinkle in his eye. His tear ducts, if still functional, might be acting up a little now to make up for that sparkle. "I'd ... like that. Thank you."
A bit of silence, as Joly's presence filtered back into his realm of peripheral sensation, as the cold of a hypo spray settled against his skin. "Hey, Jehan?
"I love you."
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 10:53 pm (UTC)It already was; Marcel was talking, wasn't he? Coherent? Nothing else mattered.
"Don't be so formal." Chided to his 'I'd like that. Thank you.' Maybe he wasn't coherent, if he was up to acting like Enjolras.
The 'I love you' brought a different kind of dazzle to his smile, more demure yet brighter, as he nosed gently between his knuckles. It brought a different sort of depth to the knowledge that everything would be all right, that it already was: there was the proof.
For all of Marcel's panic, his insecurity, his blinding exuberance of emotion, both up and down; there was that. And that made everything else crystallize into one special, important whole, the parts of which so rarely mattered individually.
"I love you too, Marcel. See you in just one second." Gave back, as Joly released the hypo and gave him a nod to show it was done.
"I'll call you when he wakes up."
"I'll already be here."
"Fabulous." But for all the sarcasm packed into that one word, Theo was grinning a little.
"Thanks, doctor." Getting up, Jehan gave Marcel's hand a soft squeeze and let go. "For helping them."
"Music to my ears, someone who understands! Besides, he called me a genius; I might make his face look even better." When Jehan paled, he snorted softly. "Ooor not. Okay. Well, you go do your job or something. I'll do mine." And with that said? He snapped back into Business Mode, picking up the tool he'd calibrated.
Jehan nodded and went across the room to get that first aid kit, helping an Ensign to his feet after to lead into the overflow room and giving Bahorel a passing eyeroll.
He'd told him to lay down... goodness.