The darkness started to recede from both his vision and his mind. The pain however had remained.
With a groan Sir Ingles attempted to raise his head, and found he could not. Not for lack of trying, but because he was, as he discovered, mag locked to a stretcher in order to prevent possibly harmful motions. Standard procedure probably, albeit not for anything he believed might be ailing him.
It cost him marked difficulty to survey his surroundings, but from what he could make out, or indeed see, he was still within the engine room.
Normally he would consider that to be a good thing, but at the moment he did not, if only because he felt quite under the weather, and could hardly recall why, other than it being engine room related.
“Ah good morning Sir, you gave us all quite a fright there, disengaging your boots like that, could’ve snapped you in half or worse you know!” Dame Spriggot stepped into his limited field of vision, sounding like a worried mother rather than a knight. Sir Ingles merely smiled, and tried to speak, in order to make a witty retort about falling for her, but found he could not. His lips were cracked, his throat sore and dry, his face well he was fairly certain he was crispier than his morning bacon. So instead he groaned hoarsely, and grimaced, as millimeters from his ear Dame Spriggot whispered. “The situation is, unfavorable, we have no medics directly available, and your burnt severely, dehydrated too, here drink some. I’ve sent requests, and help is coming but you need to hold on, or one of them will start making crass jokes about the knight commander again.” All he could do was groan, and blink his understanding, to which Spriggot merely nodded, and walked of again, distantly he could hear her call out to one of the men, but Sir Ingles was already drifting away again.
Chaos surrounded Sir Bron as he navigated the halls of The Camelot, men were screaming civilians got in the way wherever he turned, and the medical teams were caught in the middle of it all, their forms less intimidating than the average Knight the medical crew was also the ideal target for any nastiness these people could come up with, and in a situation as tense as the present that would not take long, action was needed but for some reason he could not hail his commanders. So he made a decision, one he would probably doubt the rest of his life if he allowed himself to. first he increased his external speakers volume, then he drew his weapons, and bellowed at the top of his lungs “Quiet! Behold ! The madness you bring to yourselves! Stand down and return to your appointed places!” He feared his action would fail the moment he performed it, yet hoped it would at least alert the non armoured personnel to rally to the nearest Knights. Everyone heeding him was something he dared not even think about, and yet that was exactly what happened.
Dame Krim had stopped talking like he had asked, and Mordred contented himself with holding his mother’s hand as she slept, ignoring the busy mechanic as she was frantically checking wires and labels seemingly getting more concerned by the minute. If anything he had all the time in the world.
Dame Krim however sought desperately for a way to disconnect Morgana from the engine controls without killing or waking her, something that should in all honousty not really pose an issue to a mechanic of her skill, after all the wires and tubes were technically labeled, except that the labels themselves were illegible, and partly decayed. Things were certainly not looking good.
“ALL NON ESSENTIAL PERSONNEL REPORT FOR CRYO IMMEDIATELY! DIVERT ALL AVAILABLE POWER IMMEDIATELY TO THE DRIVE AS SOON AS IT BECOMES AVAILABLE!” Sir Ton of the Tower had removed his helm, as it had felt stifling, and bellowed his orders purely vocally. nonetheless the men obeyed, or perhaps it was because of it. The bridge was alive with motion, directed to a single purpose, catching up to the Camelot, a herculean task at the best of times, but now with organic debris being lobbed at the Sword of Damocles, and The Camelot jumping around maneuvering like a toddler playing a racing simulator it seemed nigh on impossible. A thought suddenly occurred to Sir Ton, a thought he acted on before it fully formed. “Helmsman, maintain a lock upon her, pursue her at maximum firing range.” The bridge went quiet. “S Sir? You mean to attack her? Our own men ?” Sir Ton merely Stared at the screen, gripping the rail tightly.
(Authors note) A short post today, to get back into the setting and the feel of the story, I hope no one minds.