Uninterested in Asadi's clearly mercurial outlook regarding him and his motives, the shuddering of the ship as it encounters some disagreeable force is a far more immediate and relevant issue, and Rush reroutes his attention back to the console.
"A problem," he says shortly. Deft manipulation of the console's interface alters the display to indicate the layout of the ship itself, patches of red flickering to indicate the various points of internal-external damage. Hull breaches, numerous, all due to a wavering shield level and a dangerously low fucking power supply - the process of dialing here doubtless drained whatever reserves the ship had at its disposal.
Low shielding, when traveling at supraliminal speeds, may exact enough stress upon Destiny for the ship to tear itself apart.
This is not the preferred output.
The groan of metal under pressure. The crackle of live wires. A veil of sparks spraying from ceiling to floor in a blazing spray.
His grasp tightens reflexively as the high-voltage jolt snaps through the console to the hands gripping it, momentarily welding skin to superheated metal before releasing it in an agonizing discharge.
Rush loses his ability to track current events for a few moments. He thinks, possibly, that his body arcs - certainly it impacts something, head cracking sickeningly against metal, and when he is next fully cognizant he is on the floor again, awareness suffused in the dull ring drilling itself through the center of his skull.
tw: physical trauma
"A problem," he says shortly. Deft manipulation of the console's interface alters the display to indicate the layout of the ship itself, patches of red flickering to indicate the various points of internal-external damage. Hull breaches, numerous, all due to a wavering shield level and a dangerously low fucking power supply - the process of dialing here doubtless drained whatever reserves the ship had at its disposal.
Low shielding, when traveling at supraliminal speeds, may exact enough stress upon Destiny for the ship to tear itself apart.
This is not the preferred output.
The groan of metal under pressure. The crackle of live wires. A veil of sparks spraying from ceiling to floor in a blazing spray.
His grasp tightens reflexively as the high-voltage jolt snaps through the console to the hands gripping it, momentarily welding skin to superheated metal before releasing it in an agonizing discharge.
Rush loses his ability to track current events for a few moments. He thinks, possibly, that his body arcs - certainly it impacts something, head cracking sickeningly against metal, and when he is next fully cognizant he is on the floor again, awareness suffused in the dull ring drilling itself through the center of his skull.