Author's note: I am a somewhat accomplished academic writer, but am totally new to the craft of creative writing - that said, any and all constructive criticism is something I appreciate deeply and helps me make this hopefully lengthy saga a great adventure for everyone!
I stumble, hand reaching out to brace against the cool metallic wall of the windowless hallway as the ship is hit with a volley of laser shots. The hull groans in protest, and I hasten towards the far door as the pitching subsides. With a soft hissing, the doors part before me, and I hesitate for a moment as smoke rushes out of the dark room. I see a maintenance panel illuminated by fire from within the console. Taking one last clean breath, I charge in, kneeling quickly under the controls. The panel comes away easily, red hot in my gloved hands. The electrical fire surges in the freshly oxygenated air.
The advantage to having a hastily retrofitted cruiser is that tools are always on hand, given these incidents are frequent. However, I often fumble with the eclectic collection of tools which are either outdated or not meant for human hands. Attempting to bring this to the attention of the captain was met with a stern rebuff and a mumbled "greenhorn." Thankfully, the fire extinguisher is one piece of equipment we have that meets with Federation standards, and I dispatch the blaze promptly. I crawl forward to examine the inner workings of the console, running my eyes over the components, hoping for an obvious problem.
As I begin to reach for a power coupling, the ship bucks again, the force ramming my head into the sharp edge of the open panel. Righting myself, I hear two subsequent shots land, and the vessel yaws dramatically. Distant footsteps and shouting reach my ears. O'Regan will have left his post to repair the oxygen generator. Even with a Mantis cruiser hammering our tin can, I find myself avoiding my task of repairing the shield generator.
Although I would never admit it, I feel the responsibility of serving on his ship, with its glorious mission and tiny compliment, to be far beyond my current level of competence. I was plucked straight from my graduating class, with unexceptional credentials, and sent to "save the Federation." And even among shipmates with similar stories, it is my personal assessment that I am the weakest, the least skilled, the least deserving of my position.
I force my attention back to the mess of wiring in front of me, the sterile white light pouring in from the open doorway dimly illuminating my task and throwing confusing shadows. My eyes dart frantically, but cannot fixate on anything as panic begins to grip me. I feel a creeping warmth trail down my forehead, stinging my eye. More shots land near my section of the hull and the lights in the hall flicker, briefly casting me in complete darkness. I wipe my face with the back of my glove, and to my horror, the white forearm of my suit is now streaked with blood. As I stare in abject terror at the shiny red patch, the floor suddenly launches at me with a colossal blast, throwing me remorselessly into the opposing wall. I slump limply to the floor.
Everything is dark and I seem to exist separately from my body. I register a loud hissing over my own heartbeat, hammering deafeningly in my ears. Breathing is difficult now, although I can feel my chest heaving wildly. A figure appears silhouetted in the doorway. I seem to float down the brightness of the hallway. My legs drag lamely over the steel plates. A last memory, before a peaceful emptiness engulfs me: I hear the unmistakable voice of the captain shouting, "Brace to jump!"