01-12-2026, 02:28 PM
== Impulse Deck ==
Riley didn’t move in on the hatch again—not yet. She held position just outside arm’s reach, posture compact, eyes locked on the latch and the warped edges where the metal had buckled.
Closed, but not actually secured… the kind of “good enough” seal that bought someone seconds they didn’t have time to spare.
Her gaze tracked along the top surface, landing on the gouges there. They weren’t clean tool marks—too uneven, too deep in the wrong places—like something had dug in for leverage when the panel refused to cooperate.
For half a second her brain tried to label it anyway—claw-like, almost—and the first face it served up was Jadaris. The Yeager’s Chief Engineer was the only reptilian she could name off-hand, and he was a Gorn… but the thought died as quickly as it appeared. Jadaris didn’t lurk in maintenance trunks. He didn’t sabotage his own ship. And even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have been sloppy enough to leave this kind of story written in metal.
Stop reaching. Stick to what’s in front of you.
Crescent worked nearby with her tricorder, quiet and focused, but Riley kept her attention on the hatch instead of trying to read over someone’s shoulder. d’Tor’an had the lead here; Riley’s job was to back her up, stay sharp, and not overstep.
Don’t make this about you. The warning came uninvited, riding on the same nervous energy that wanted her to crowd the seam, to demand answers from an inanimate piece of metal. She could feel her pulse in her throat anyway, that hot, stupid urge to do something—anything—other than stand there while the ship’s guts kept its secrets.
The captain’s earlier words hovered at the edge of her thoughts, impossible to ignore. Tomer wasn’t just missing—he was a question mark with teeth. That didn’t make Riley sure of anything, but it did mean she couldn’t afford the comfort of assumptions.
He could be right there… and he might not be alone.
The idea slid under her ribs and stuck, not as a plea for help but as a scenario—one of several—and none of them ended cleanly. Tomer wedged into a maintenance trunk to hide, to listen, to wait for an opening. Tomer using it as a route to bypass bulkheads and eyes. Tomer forcing it shut behind him because he’d been followed… or because he’d needed to buy himself time. The details shifted, but the implication stayed sharp: this hatch mattered, and it had been closed in a way that wasn’t standard.
Riley forced a slow inhale through her nose, letting the familiar smells of the ship—metal, recycled air, faint lubricant—anchor her back to the moment. The Impulse Deck carried its own soundtrack too: the low, steady thrum that lived in the bones, a reminder of power and momentum held in check by procedures and people doing their jobs.
If this is where he chose to move, then there’s a reason. The thought didn’t reassure her as much as she wanted it to. It only sharpened the questions. Why this deck? Why this access? Why force it shut instead of locking it?
She shifted her stance a fraction to keep the corridor approaches in her peripheral, then leaned just enough to confirm what her eyes had already told her: the lock wasn’t engaged. The frame was heat-scored. The seam had a faint, fused sheen to it—like something had flashed hot at the exact wrong moment.
If that conduit went live while it was closing… whoever did it either panicked, or didn’t care what it burned.
Riley spoke quietly, pitching her voice for the Chief without turning it into an announcement. “Lock’s not engaged. Looks like it was forced shut. The servos around the frame are scorched, and the seam’s partially fused.”
She hesitated a heartbeat, then added—careful, not pushing, just offering what her brain wouldn’t let go of. “Those gouges… they don’t look like someone slipped with a tool.”
Then she held back again, hands clear of the metal, giving the hatch room. She’d seen enough training sims to know how quickly curiosity became complacency. How fast a “just check” turned into an injury report. Or worse, a name in a log that didn’t get read out loud until the memorial.
Silence stretched—long enough that Riley found herself listening for anything through the seam. A pressure hiss. A scrape. Even the smallest sign that whatever had been down there wasn’t gone. She didn’t hear anything, but she still found herself staring at the hairline gap like it might breathe.
Her fingers flexed once at her side, then stilled. She kept herself steady by focusing on the simple, practical stuff: where she’d move if the hatch blew inward, where Crescent was standing, what angle gave d’Tor’an a clear line if something tried to bolt past them.
If it opens, you don’t freeze. That was the real fear—not that something was behind the hatch, but that she’d hesitate for half a second when it mattered most.
== GM-Input: ==
1) Does this compartment have any mapped secondary exits (Jeffries connections / ladder trunks) within a short distance, or is it a dead-end service space?
2) Any audible/airflow indicators through the seam (pressure hiss, movement, scraping), or is it dead-quiet on the other side?
3) Are the gouges consistent with any known shipboard species’ claws/boots, or still too ambiguous without closer analysis?
Riley didn’t move in on the hatch again—not yet. She held position just outside arm’s reach, posture compact, eyes locked on the latch and the warped edges where the metal had buckled.
Closed, but not actually secured… the kind of “good enough” seal that bought someone seconds they didn’t have time to spare.
Her gaze tracked along the top surface, landing on the gouges there. They weren’t clean tool marks—too uneven, too deep in the wrong places—like something had dug in for leverage when the panel refused to cooperate.
For half a second her brain tried to label it anyway—claw-like, almost—and the first face it served up was Jadaris. The Yeager’s Chief Engineer was the only reptilian she could name off-hand, and he was a Gorn… but the thought died as quickly as it appeared. Jadaris didn’t lurk in maintenance trunks. He didn’t sabotage his own ship. And even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have been sloppy enough to leave this kind of story written in metal.
Stop reaching. Stick to what’s in front of you.
Crescent worked nearby with her tricorder, quiet and focused, but Riley kept her attention on the hatch instead of trying to read over someone’s shoulder. d’Tor’an had the lead here; Riley’s job was to back her up, stay sharp, and not overstep.
Don’t make this about you. The warning came uninvited, riding on the same nervous energy that wanted her to crowd the seam, to demand answers from an inanimate piece of metal. She could feel her pulse in her throat anyway, that hot, stupid urge to do something—anything—other than stand there while the ship’s guts kept its secrets.
The captain’s earlier words hovered at the edge of her thoughts, impossible to ignore. Tomer wasn’t just missing—he was a question mark with teeth. That didn’t make Riley sure of anything, but it did mean she couldn’t afford the comfort of assumptions.
He could be right there… and he might not be alone.
The idea slid under her ribs and stuck, not as a plea for help but as a scenario—one of several—and none of them ended cleanly. Tomer wedged into a maintenance trunk to hide, to listen, to wait for an opening. Tomer using it as a route to bypass bulkheads and eyes. Tomer forcing it shut behind him because he’d been followed… or because he’d needed to buy himself time. The details shifted, but the implication stayed sharp: this hatch mattered, and it had been closed in a way that wasn’t standard.
Riley forced a slow inhale through her nose, letting the familiar smells of the ship—metal, recycled air, faint lubricant—anchor her back to the moment. The Impulse Deck carried its own soundtrack too: the low, steady thrum that lived in the bones, a reminder of power and momentum held in check by procedures and people doing their jobs.
If this is where he chose to move, then there’s a reason. The thought didn’t reassure her as much as she wanted it to. It only sharpened the questions. Why this deck? Why this access? Why force it shut instead of locking it?
She shifted her stance a fraction to keep the corridor approaches in her peripheral, then leaned just enough to confirm what her eyes had already told her: the lock wasn’t engaged. The frame was heat-scored. The seam had a faint, fused sheen to it—like something had flashed hot at the exact wrong moment.
If that conduit went live while it was closing… whoever did it either panicked, or didn’t care what it burned.
Riley spoke quietly, pitching her voice for the Chief without turning it into an announcement. “Lock’s not engaged. Looks like it was forced shut. The servos around the frame are scorched, and the seam’s partially fused.”
She hesitated a heartbeat, then added—careful, not pushing, just offering what her brain wouldn’t let go of. “Those gouges… they don’t look like someone slipped with a tool.”
Then she held back again, hands clear of the metal, giving the hatch room. She’d seen enough training sims to know how quickly curiosity became complacency. How fast a “just check” turned into an injury report. Or worse, a name in a log that didn’t get read out loud until the memorial.
Silence stretched—long enough that Riley found herself listening for anything through the seam. A pressure hiss. A scrape. Even the smallest sign that whatever had been down there wasn’t gone. She didn’t hear anything, but she still found herself staring at the hairline gap like it might breathe.
Her fingers flexed once at her side, then stilled. She kept herself steady by focusing on the simple, practical stuff: where she’d move if the hatch blew inward, where Crescent was standing, what angle gave d’Tor’an a clear line if something tried to bolt past them.
If it opens, you don’t freeze. That was the real fear—not that something was behind the hatch, but that she’d hesitate for half a second when it mattered most.
== GM-Input: ==
1) Does this compartment have any mapped secondary exits (Jeffries connections / ladder trunks) within a short distance, or is it a dead-end service space?
2) Any audible/airflow indicators through the seam (pressure hiss, movement, scraping), or is it dead-quiet on the other side?
3) Are the gouges consistent with any known shipboard species’ claws/boots, or still too ambiguous without closer analysis?