Gordon has been having a great evening. Fine food, fine company, fine wine – not that's he's having any wine. He's as off duty as he can get, but it's been ingrained in him to be ready for the entirety of his adult life, and so it's non-alcoholic beer for him. He likes being in the sort of place a fine wine is served though.
"What was all that about?" One of the hangers on he's accumulated gasps, a little over half drunk and keen for gossip. There isn't any, just a blurred line between playful banter and actual insult that has sent John stalking silently from their small group. Gordon briefly considered running after him to apologise, but there would be time for that later and one of the waiters is bringing over another platter of those delicious toasted cheese things.
He's on his third when the chandelier starts to shake, a soft tinkle of crystal blowing in the wind. Which is odd because there are no open windows in this room, not even a balcony to look out over the city. Gordon pauses with a volovant half in his mouth, senses screaming that something is wrong.
He's poised, and uncoils like a snake when the gentle shake above becomes a full blow tremor down the walls. "Down! Everyone down!" he yells, people scattering to all corners. Gordon's running, heading for the door, when all the lights go out and one wall explodes in a cloud of plaster.
The sound of John's breath bounces off the walls, and his heartbeat echos in his ears. The elevator has stilled, silent, allowing John to slowly push himself to a sitting position. It's pitch black. Not even the regulation emergency lighting is on. Which, he will admit, is worrying.
He fumbles for his watch - the one piece of IR tech he has on him at the moment - to call the others. But it doesn't light up as he expects to. A lump of concrete forms in his stomach. Fingertips dancing across the watch-face he can't make out any damage and these things were built to take a lot; a little shaking couldn't hurt them. Usually.
"Which means an EMP of some sort," John speaks aloud, to have something to fill the darkness. "Great."
He pulls himself to his feet, grasping along the wall he thinks is the front of the elevator for the control panel. He finds the floor buttons, the door buttons and then the call button. A few frantic pushes and... silence. Not even the hiss of static. Which is not surprising given the state of the other electronics but still bitterly, crushingly, disappointing.
Next John tries the doors, finding the thin centre seem. There is no purchase though, no way to get a hand or finger or even fingernail in the gap and pry them apart.
Suddenly the darkness is both oppressively claustrophobic and distressingly infinite. The walls could be an inch from his nose or a mile away and he wouldn't know the difference. His heart rate shoots up and his throat tightens.
He groans into the void, hurriedly putting his back to the wall and sliding down to the floor. The metal is cold under his palms, fingers splayed out as far as they can go, and he can feel the coolness seeping through his jacket and shirt as well. It's a nice contrast to the sudden heat that has swept through him, sweat bursting across his forehead and at his hairline.
He recognises the symptoms: heart racing, eyes itching, the pressure of the ceiling pushing down on his shoulders. "No time for a panic attack." He tries to sound confident, but his mouth is dry and his throat cracks.
The one corner of his mind that still contains rational thought knows that he's absolutely fine, but that's being subsumed by overwhelming fear. The darkness is all. The pressure. John squeezes his eyes shut, because at least that's meant to be dark, and pretends that he's up on Five. That's an enclosed space, that would feel the same right? No. Because the metal under his fingers is still, missing the ever-present hum that is the heartbeat of the grand station's engines. If Five were this silent he would likely be dead.
In one of Two's pods then? Yes, that would do. He takes a deep breath in, or as deep as he can manage. Two is in for maintenance. Breathes out. He's helping restock one of the pods. Breathes in. Got a tool set in front of him. Breathes out. Virgil's round the corner. Breathes in. Going to do an oil change next. Breathes out. Then restock the med pack. Breathes in.
John has no real awareness of how longs he sits like that, arms out, breathing deep and slow, forcing his mind to focus on the imaginary task rather than the reality of his situation, but eventually John's heart stops trying to beat out his chest. He's calmer, doesn't feel light headed or like he might throw up. He is, however, covered in sweat tired as the adrenaline rush subsides.
He opens his eyes, and though it's barely any different it's easier to cope with. Another quick search for the control panel gives no better results, and his watch is still dead.