[ He hears it, too - distantly, through nearly a foot of steel and polycarbonate and shatterproof glass. Countdown to automatic ejection, and he knows on instinct there's only one thing that could eject. A backwards glance tells him pretty clearly that there's no safety gate, no secondary portal to close. There's just this. There's just him.
Him, and nothing else. Bare walls, no panels, no buttons, no levers. Nothing he could even occupy his mind with trying in a useless bid to save his own life.
There is nothing but door, glass, airlock, and empty hallway.
Immediately, the flat of his palm starts banging against unforgiving, unemphatic door. ]
Hey- hey! Hello! Wait a second, I'm in here-
[ It doesn't go anywhere. Barely, barely even penetrates to the other side. Mace doesn't need to get his attention, Ian's wild-eyed staring through the glass at him the second he comes into view of the glass panel.
He can't really hear Mace- barely, just loud enough that he can sort of piece together the words through context. His name, break the manual seal, airlock.
Override. Manual control.
Negative, Mace. Failure to vent will result in catastrophic systems failure. Extreme hydrogen content in the airlock shaft will flood back into oxygen recycling. Explosive reaction in or around oxygen filtration will guarantee incapacitation of the ship. Chances of mission completion are less than once percent. Are you sure you want to override?
He's not a fucking astronaut or anything, but he's pretty sure that's a bad outcome. It roots him in place, shocks him still, and his mind instinctively starts turning over solutions. Problem solving. There is no opening the door. There is no leaving this airlock, save for when the airlock opens.
If he holds his breath, the vacuum of space will pull the air out and his lungs will rupture. If he exhales, it doesn't matter. Oxygen in the rest of his body will immediately expand. Liquid will vaporize - he'll lose his eyes and his tongue. After fifteen seconds, if he's still alive he'll pass out. After ninety, exposure will kill him. He will freeze solid, and then he'll crack apart.
Everything about that is fucking terrifying.
He rips his eyes away from Mace to frantically search the space behind him. Any suit, any cables, any ties, anything to hold onto for even the chance that he can stay inside the ship during the venting process. It may look a little bit more like he's having a panic attack, searching the walls with his fingers, digging at gaps, looking for anything that might open. The rest of this fucking airlock is empty. Not even a fucking support beam.
It rips from his throat without him even realizing it: ]
no subject
Him, and nothing else. Bare walls, no panels, no buttons, no levers. Nothing he could even occupy his mind with trying in a useless bid to save his own life.
There is nothing but door, glass, airlock, and empty hallway.
Immediately, the flat of his palm starts banging against unforgiving, unemphatic door. ]
Hey- hey! Hello! Wait a second, I'm in here-
[ It doesn't go anywhere. Barely, barely even penetrates to the other side. Mace doesn't need to get his attention, Ian's wild-eyed staring through the glass at him the second he comes into view of the glass panel.
He can't really hear Mace- barely, just loud enough that he can sort of piece together the words through context. His name, break the manual seal, airlock.
Override. Manual control.
Negative, Mace. Failure to vent will result in catastrophic systems failure. Extreme hydrogen content in the airlock shaft will flood back into oxygen recycling. Explosive reaction in or around oxygen filtration will guarantee incapacitation of the ship. Chances of mission completion are less than once percent. Are you sure you want to override?
He's not a fucking astronaut or anything, but he's pretty sure that's a bad outcome. It roots him in place, shocks him still, and his mind instinctively starts turning over solutions. Problem solving. There is no opening the door. There is no leaving this airlock, save for when the airlock opens.
If he holds his breath, the vacuum of space will pull the air out and his lungs will rupture. If he exhales, it doesn't matter. Oxygen in the rest of his body will immediately expand. Liquid will vaporize - he'll lose his eyes and his tongue. After fifteen seconds, if he's still alive he'll pass out. After ninety, exposure will kill him. He will freeze solid, and then he'll crack apart.
Everything about that is fucking terrifying.
He rips his eyes away from Mace to frantically search the space behind him. Any suit, any cables, any ties, anything to hold onto for even the chance that he can stay inside the ship during the venting process. It may look a little bit more like he's having a panic attack, searching the walls with his fingers, digging at gaps, looking for anything that might open. The rest of this fucking airlock is empty. Not even a fucking support beam.
It rips from his throat without him even realizing it: ]
FUCK-