U.S.S. Hathaway — Engine Room

Bulkheads slump under emergency shadows as low worklights carve faces from scorched metal; blown conduits and ripped impulse assemblies braid into a landscape of ruin. Dilithium sits stripped from warped chambers, and the air tastes of ozone, hot insulation, and tool oil. Wesley freezes, eyes wide at exposed cores, while Geordi crouches amid sparks and jury‑rigged fittings, muscles tense and hands stained. The room throbs with mechanical threat and fragile possibility: a patched impulse installation coughs, panels clatter, lights flicker, and a small, precarious hum rises — a tenuous heartbeat that turns desperation into a brittle, actionable hope.