NationStates Jolt Archive

War... death, devastation... so unnecessary, but so effective. No man can ignore a bullet. No man can outrun a bullet. You may outrun adversaries, you may outrun armies... but you will never outrun your fate. Embrace your fate. Embrace death.
*splash!*
"Damnit... he's surely gone." Sounds and voices ring and echo.
"How're you so sure? That was a hell'uva blast but the skeletal dampeners took most of the force."

Jeff Beckram lay on the floor, teetering on the brink of conciousness.

"Hey... watch the eyes... I told you he'd come to!"

Jeff slowly opened his eyes as white florescent light shone through his eyelids. "What the fuck... what's this?" His words were mumbled and incoherant as he struggled to verbalize his thoughts.

"Damnit Jeff, that's what you get for not grabbing that rail!" The outline of a man slowly appeared as the light became less stunning and intense. Hovering over him was Master Sergeant Small, whose name did no justice to his physical appearance. "You got quite a knockin' just a few minutes ago. Try not to move, I paged for Doc."

"You... didn't answer my question. What happened?" Jeff's coherency gradually improved as he regained his senses. Sparks flew, klaxons blared. The FHNS Defiant was a warzone in itself. Massive impacts rocked the vessel and its crew as the last remaining Halsey-class SuperDestroyer quite literally fell apart at the hands of an alien race known only as "Victim".

"We took a direct hit from the Victim... you were thrown into an equipment panel. Don't move - you're bleeding from the hea-... Hey, stay with me!" Jeff felt himself slipping under... all he wanted was to rest his eyes - a telltale sign of blood loss, fainting, and eventually, death.

Sarge threw his fist into a nearby panel, striking a blue button. An alarm rang throughout the Defiant for the Med staff. "Come on, damnit!" To his relief, he spotted three men running down the corridor - leading them was Major Kepler, the vessel's chief medical officer. Another blast rocked the Defiant - this, however, did not deter Sarge as he slung a near-unconscious Jeff over his shoulder. Simultaneously a message from the bridge emanated from the comm system -

"All personnel, brace for slipspace entry - Victim is pulling back!"

Jeff slipped out of consciousness as a female voice filled his head - "This is not your time... this is not fate."

"I can't explain in it words you'd understand. Put simply, Beckram's head trauma from the blast and successive recoil is forcing him into a deep state of unconsciousness. It's somewhat difficult to determine what's happening inside his head - or, rather, inside his mind." Major Kepler grinned and drew a small flashlight from his pocket. It shone into Jeff's eyes to reveal dilation, confirming Kepler's theory of brain trauma. "At this point, I can't give you odds. I'm preparing the MRI scanner for FMRI and subsequent DTI, although I doubt he's suffered any tissue damage."

Sarge grabbed at his neck to straighten his tie, realizing that there was, in fact, no tie to straighten. I shouldn't have left my damned suit job.

Kepler, noticing an awkward silence cast over the room, interjected with a suggestion. "Perhaps you'd be best to return to your post. Only God Himself knows how long we have until the Victim returns. Besides, don't you have a TPS report to file?" Sergeant Small was known for his executive position prior to enlistment - some question his decision to bypass the Officer's academy, MOCA, and settle for basic training and the rank of Private. Kepler was one of them, considering he was Small's university classmate who opted for MOCA straight out of college.

Large scanners rose from the metal floor, one of them as large as an APC. Major Kepler commenced a composite fMRI and Diffusion Tensor Imaging scan on Jeff Beckram, peering into the depths of the human brain. All sectors are intact... but the lighting is... insane. No abnormal firing in the dorsal horn... he's not in pain, but he's having quite the brainstorming session...