Fitz (imengineering) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-07-15 14:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, leo fitz |
Who: Leo Fitz
When: July 15th
Where: Whothehellknows which is part of Themiddleoftheocean
What: So, basically, Fitz has some time to process how much longer he has to live.
Rating: Low!
Variables in the rate of descent: viscosity of ocean water -- probably negligible out here, though eddies would create a scenario where drag needed to be factored in -- and there had to be accounting for the pressure differential between cabin and exterior waters, as density would either slow or speed the rate up. Then again, there wasn’t much to be done with that number without a length of time from the start of their descent to now, which, admittedly couldn’t have been too long after initial breach. “Too long” wasn’t quantitative enough to work with, though. Besides, the rate had to be at least second-order. Maybe a few assumptions would make for a best-estimate first-order equation, but… But there was the fact that the pod was made to be compatible with all SHIELD air crafts, submarines, and spacecrafts -- atmospheric adaptation would have triggered on impact. The adaptive nature would negate most of the variables, more than likely. Fitz focused his eyes on the water level just outside the window, which was slowly rising. They weren’t entirely submerged, not that the reaching view of nothingness and open horizon provided any comfort. She was out cold. His arm was broken if he could guess at anything by the searing pain radiating from the same two places he’d broken it in second grade. Strange coincidence, that. Nothing important, but just strange. And all these facts added up to was a set of former agents who would sooner drown if he tried to force the door open right now. The water rose higher against the glass. His eyes traced over the visibly peaceful slump that Simmons had become. There was a beleaguered scoot towards her, even as he reached for the first aid supply that these pods were mandated to contain. Fitz braced his back against the ledge that would’ve been a seat in normal evacuation circumstances, and with his good arm supporting her, tugged her upper body over and up off the floor. It wasn’t ideal, but she would maybe wake up with something less of a crick in the neck. It didn’t matter, and then it completely mattered in a desperate and demanding way at the same time. That was most things with Simmons; every minuscule thing about her and moment with her held his thoughts hostage. It hadn’t always been like that, but time passed, and his mastery was that of the mind. His heart tended to run off, he guessed. And it took his courage with it. The water level had to be halfway up the glass, now. A quick glance confirmed that, and, like gears clicking into place, so had Fitz’s eyes snapped back to it. Halfway -- the water was almost exactly halfway up against the glass. Window specs zipped forward on instant recall. They were four feet high in full, and half was left. He started counting out even and steady seconds until the window was submerged. Distance divided by time yields rate. Rate multiplied by time yields new distance, such as their final depth. Easy. He started counting again; a glance was stolen down at Simmons as he kept his voice quiet, so as not to disturb her. There was hope here after the first minute passed. A shallow enough stretch of ocean meant a chance to surface or reach out with a signal. Several more minutes found that hope dwindling. It had mostly fizzled by the time the pod landed some ninety feet down. Not long after, Simmons stirred. |