[And, with no further preamble, she leans back and kicks the door right off its latch. It swings into the room beyond, impacting the wall with a bang made only more shocking by the quiet. It ought to echo, but the carpet of the hall swallows it up; not so, for the room beyond.
Shepard, for all her jackbooted tactics, doesn't move to enter.
It's a corridor, grey-blue metal and white-blue lights, signage in a sterile stenciled-on style cautioning the reader to watch the warning lights when airlock is in use. The floor is a grate, showing tubing and wires, a crawlspace beneath clearly visible.]
What the fuck. [Shepard isn't paying much attention to Sam, now, and instead of simply storming in past the dented door and it's ruined deadbolt, she walks past him as if in a daze.] ...What is this?
[To the left, what is clearly a cockpit of some sort, room for three seats, center, left, and right, and all the readouts brought up in their holographic glory. Sam may not know the system or the specifics, but any pilot could recognize a few things; pitch, airspeed readout, altimeter, and the gyroscope horizon-line reading level with text declaring the whole system DOCKED: LOADING CLAMPS ENGAGED.
To the right? Well. More of the same. Seats and stations, crowded in close, like t he belly of a submarine, but very clearly this is not meant to go underwater, not with the endless view of stars out the front viewport. Not with the clearly-visible galactic map on display above a raised station, in the command center to the right. The words stenciled on the wall say it all.]
...This is the Normandy. This is my ship. [There is a pause, as she listens. The lights may be on, but there's no more sound here than in the previous room. Dead silence, not even the air-sounds of a functioning life support system. No ship, however damaged, was ever really silent unless it, and everyone within, were dead.] Something's definitely not right, here.
no subject
[And, with no further preamble, she leans back and kicks the door right off its latch. It swings into the room beyond, impacting the wall with a bang made only more shocking by the quiet. It ought to echo, but the carpet of the hall swallows it up; not so, for the room beyond.
Shepard, for all her jackbooted tactics, doesn't move to enter.
It's a corridor, grey-blue metal and white-blue lights, signage in a sterile stenciled-on style cautioning the reader to watch the warning lights when airlock is in use. The floor is a grate, showing tubing and wires, a crawlspace beneath clearly visible.]
What the fuck. [Shepard isn't paying much attention to Sam, now, and instead of simply storming in past the dented door and it's ruined deadbolt, she walks past him as if in a daze.] ...What is this?
[To the left, what is clearly a cockpit of some sort, room for three seats, center, left, and right, and all the readouts brought up in their holographic glory. Sam may not know the system or the specifics, but any pilot could recognize a few things; pitch, airspeed readout, altimeter, and the gyroscope horizon-line reading level with text declaring the whole system DOCKED: LOADING CLAMPS ENGAGED.
To the right? Well. More of the same. Seats and stations, crowded in close, like t he belly of a submarine, but very clearly this is not meant to go underwater, not with the endless view of stars out the front viewport. Not with the clearly-visible galactic map on display above a raised station, in the command center to the right. The words stenciled on the wall say it all.]
...This is the Normandy. This is my ship. [There is a pause, as she listens. The lights may be on, but there's no more sound here than in the previous room. Dead silence, not even the air-sounds of a functioning life support system. No ship, however damaged, was ever really silent unless it, and everyone within, were dead.] Something's definitely not right, here.