Yesterday, 03:33 PM
<< Crew Quarters <<
== Impulse Deck ==
Riley moved with purpose, letting the Impulse Deck signage and bulkhead markers pull her forward like a magnetic line. The corridor traffic thinned as they left crew quarters behind—fewer casual conversations, fewer off-duty uniforms, more of the ship’s working spine: access panels, ladder wells, and junctions that looked identical until you’d learned to read the tiny stenciled numbers.
She stayed a half-step behind and to the side, keeping her pace measured and her posture controlled. Not hiding, not posturing—just present. Available. Watching. The Captain’s message still rang in her head, but Riley kept it where it belonged: behind her eyes, not on her face.
Sabotage and murder.
Impulse was louder in a way most people didn’t notice until they were close to it—deeper vibrations through the deck plating, the steady industrial cadence of systems doing their jobs. The closer they got, the more the background hum sharpened into distinct layers: ventilation, power transfer, the occasional hiss of a hatch cycling somewhere out of sight.
At the next junction, she slowed just enough to scan the space before committing—sightlines first, then corners, then the angles where someone could stand tucked back and invisible until you were already too close. Her eyes found the maintenance access points instinctively: small, forgettable hatches built for technicians and ghosts.
As the Impulse Deck opened up ahead, she let her gaze sweep across it—workstations, tool lockers, signage, the subtle shift in lighting that always made engineering spaces feel more clinical and more exposed at the same time. Anyone here belonged here… until they didn’t.
Her attention went to the maintenance hatch they were here for. Riley closed the last few steps without rushing, stopping just outside arm’s reach. She studied the seam first—whether it sat flush, whether it was slightly proud, whether there were fresh scuffs around the latch where fingers or tools had found purchase. Then the deck plates in front of it—traffic patterns, faint drag marks, anything that suggested hurried movement. Then the overheads and corners, because people didn’t always come out of hatches the way you expected.
Don’t invent ghosts. Just catch the real things.
She shifted her weight subtly, lining herself up so she could see the hatch, the surrounding corridor, and at least one clean route of retreat without turning her back on anything. Her gaze flicked once to d’Tor’an and Crescent—silent coordination—then returned to the hatch.
Riley lowered into a controlled crouch, careful of the angle of her body, and brought her hand near the frame without touching it at first. She let the back of her knuckles hover close, feeling for residual warmth, then finally let her fingertips brush the edge—light contact, nothing that would smear or destroy whatever trace might still be there.
A pause. Listening. Not just for the obvious, but for the tiny betrayals: the faint settling tick of metal that had been flexed recently, the whisper of airflow that didn’t match the corridor’s ventilation rhythm.
She drew her hand back and glanced down at the deck again, following the line of the hatch as if it were an arrow. Dust, scuffs, a dull smear—anything. She didn’t assume she’d find something dramatic; most of the time you didn’t. Most of the time it was the absence of normal that told you where to look next.
If he came through here, he either found a way deeper… or he’s still close.
Riley stayed quiet, letting her attention do the talking. She shifted a few inches to the side, changing her angle on the latch, then the hinges, then the panel’s corners—small movements that kept her from locking into one perspective.
Only after she’d taken in what she could at a glance did she ease back into a ready stance, eyes still on the hatch, posture steady and restrained.
== Tags to Crescent and d'Tor'an ==
== GM-Input: For the maintenance hatch that triggered the alert: is it currently open/closed/locked, and are there any clear indicators of recent activity. ==
== Impulse Deck ==
Riley moved with purpose, letting the Impulse Deck signage and bulkhead markers pull her forward like a magnetic line. The corridor traffic thinned as they left crew quarters behind—fewer casual conversations, fewer off-duty uniforms, more of the ship’s working spine: access panels, ladder wells, and junctions that looked identical until you’d learned to read the tiny stenciled numbers.
She stayed a half-step behind and to the side, keeping her pace measured and her posture controlled. Not hiding, not posturing—just present. Available. Watching. The Captain’s message still rang in her head, but Riley kept it where it belonged: behind her eyes, not on her face.
Sabotage and murder.
Impulse was louder in a way most people didn’t notice until they were close to it—deeper vibrations through the deck plating, the steady industrial cadence of systems doing their jobs. The closer they got, the more the background hum sharpened into distinct layers: ventilation, power transfer, the occasional hiss of a hatch cycling somewhere out of sight.
At the next junction, she slowed just enough to scan the space before committing—sightlines first, then corners, then the angles where someone could stand tucked back and invisible until you were already too close. Her eyes found the maintenance access points instinctively: small, forgettable hatches built for technicians and ghosts.
As the Impulse Deck opened up ahead, she let her gaze sweep across it—workstations, tool lockers, signage, the subtle shift in lighting that always made engineering spaces feel more clinical and more exposed at the same time. Anyone here belonged here… until they didn’t.
Her attention went to the maintenance hatch they were here for. Riley closed the last few steps without rushing, stopping just outside arm’s reach. She studied the seam first—whether it sat flush, whether it was slightly proud, whether there were fresh scuffs around the latch where fingers or tools had found purchase. Then the deck plates in front of it—traffic patterns, faint drag marks, anything that suggested hurried movement. Then the overheads and corners, because people didn’t always come out of hatches the way you expected.
Don’t invent ghosts. Just catch the real things.
She shifted her weight subtly, lining herself up so she could see the hatch, the surrounding corridor, and at least one clean route of retreat without turning her back on anything. Her gaze flicked once to d’Tor’an and Crescent—silent coordination—then returned to the hatch.
Riley lowered into a controlled crouch, careful of the angle of her body, and brought her hand near the frame without touching it at first. She let the back of her knuckles hover close, feeling for residual warmth, then finally let her fingertips brush the edge—light contact, nothing that would smear or destroy whatever trace might still be there.
A pause. Listening. Not just for the obvious, but for the tiny betrayals: the faint settling tick of metal that had been flexed recently, the whisper of airflow that didn’t match the corridor’s ventilation rhythm.
She drew her hand back and glanced down at the deck again, following the line of the hatch as if it were an arrow. Dust, scuffs, a dull smear—anything. She didn’t assume she’d find something dramatic; most of the time you didn’t. Most of the time it was the absence of normal that told you where to look next.
If he came through here, he either found a way deeper… or he’s still close.
Riley stayed quiet, letting her attention do the talking. She shifted a few inches to the side, changing her angle on the latch, then the hinges, then the panel’s corners—small movements that kept her from locking into one perspective.
Only after she’d taken in what she could at a glance did she ease back into a ready stance, eyes still on the hatch, posture steady and restrained.
== Tags to Crescent and d'Tor'an ==
== GM-Input: For the maintenance hatch that triggered the alert: is it currently open/closed/locked, and are there any clear indicators of recent activity. ==