| Accidents Happen |
| Summary: | One of the ECOs has an 'unfortunate accident' at the hands of an Angry Allie who wound up pushed too far. |
| Date: | 11 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Clinging to Life |
| Players: |
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| Pilot Berths |
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| The battlestar's pilots call this place home. Bunks line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each pair of bunks and a round metal table sits in the center, furnished with simple but comfortable steel chairs. A hatch at the rear of the room leads to a communal head. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #197 |
The nights pass like days passing like nights in this windowless room, whose lighting never changes to match the diurnal patterns of those strange creatures that call it home. Today — or is it tonight? — the bulbs are dim as usual, casting long shadows across the worn metal floor, and only a few of those aforementioned creatures are awake to enjoy this chair-strewn abode. By the central table, a Raptor pair are draining the last drops from a bottle of wine while playing a game of dice; in the showers, a mousy blonde strips off her flight suit without bothering to grab a towel; in the bunks, the sound of one hand — clapping, let us say — makes itself heard over faint, satisfied growls. The chronometer on the wall gleams red like a Cylon's eye: it's 0700 hours the night after the Murder, and still the world moves on.
Cidra returned to the berthings to shower after touching down her Raptor back on the ship. And delivering its cargo, both the remains of Coll and her shooter, to Medical. She crashed in her bunk. Her own bunk that night at least, putting her return to the surface off until morning. She's in the Head now, showering. She's been at it awhile.
0700. Maggie's got duty in one hour. An alarm goes off somewhere muffled in her bunk and the LSO groans quietly, actually apparently having slept, despite all that's happened. Hell, maybe she hasn't even heard, depending on how fast rumors fly. Still, she can't ignore her alarm. She's had to use one since about a month into her pregnancy, when she was finally back on duty, the tendancy to sleep in through her shift entirely too tempting. So, she shoves it off and pale, slender legs swing down out of her bunk. She slowly pushes the curtain open.
Or at least it tries to go on as, for some, they had their world ended when Lauren Coll was ruthlessly shot down. The flight back was long enough to see Alessandra fall into a state of catatonia and by the time her feet had hit deck she had been relieved of her sidearm as there was a concern that she might take her own life if she wasn't disarmed. Taking her time trudging to the berths, she flops into bed as soon as she can make it there, not even bothering to get out of those ugly, dusty fatigues she wore.
And in among all the sad, exhausted, disturbed, etc. women, there is Devlin, the oblivious nugget poking his head out the curtain hiding his girlfriend's bunk as someone else's alarm goes off, looking around for a moment at the 'morning', such as it is in space, and in the 24-hour military, and then ducking back inside.
Cidra finally emerges from the Head, toweling off as she strides to her locker. How much she slept is an open question. She drops her towel and begins to get dressed. No trace of modesty about her, despite her Gemenese reserve in most things. The berthings are a space she's compartmentalized into a sort of mental 'Doesn't Count!' zone.
"Looking hot, Toast." The mousy blonde's fingers rap against the plastic curtain separating Cidra's shower from the rest before she steps into the nearest unoccupied stall, her flight suit a limp shell a-twisted on the ground. "Hey, sir, can I borrow some conditioner? Lost mine to those frakkers outside."
One of whom is now rattling his dice in its holder while invoking the traditional gods: "Sweet Graces, give me succor, give me ones." Onto the table those dice go, rolling and rolling until — as his luck would have it — a pair of snake-eyes stares up from whence they landed. "Tittymag's mine, Greg." And so it is that passersby might catch a glimpse of an impossibly busty brunette being handed from pilot to ECO as they make their way about the berths.
Speaking of tittymags, here comes Jugs! Maggie is almost awake, rubbing one hand at her eyes as she stares into the room, the rolling dice, the ensign who has heard her alarm. She blinks through it all and then shifts forward, pushing herself stiffly up off the bed, just in her shorts and ill-fitting tanks that she normally wears to sleep. The shorts hang low on her hips, still managing to remain in place for that, but she could definitely use going a size up in tank tops between breasts and belly. Sadly, there aren't any uniform warehouses near any more, so she's making due. She shuffles towards her locker quietly.
"Yeah, yeah." Greg hands the magazine after allowing his hands to rest on said brunette's bust a little longer than necessary, though he has eyes only for the LSO. "Morning, sir." And sotto voce, to his buddy: "Man, they were big before she got knocked up."
Welcome to the mind of a pilot.
But further comments are forestalled when from Lucky's bunk there comes a faint but noticeable squelch — the sound of something bursting, perhaps, that's quickly followed by the distinctive stench of urine (probably human). Disgusting yellow liquid soaks into her pillow before forming a small puddle on the floor.
The rush of liquid is hard to miss as Allie didn't even bother to close the privacy curtain before attempting to pass out, that and the unmistakable stench flowing freely, easy to be seen and smelled by all in the room. Rushing to her feet just after the piss hits the deck, Alessandra glares more than balefully around the room; probably easy to assume that if anyone so much as laughs or looks like they had anything to do with it they'll be in for a fight. "WHO THE FRAKK!?," Allie bellows, her body and voice shaking in rage.
"Help yourself," Cidra calls back to the blonde who'd been rapping on her shower before she exited. "I hope you do not mind the generics. Never saw the point in that scented frippery." Her conditioner probably purifies hair with fire and brimstone. She gets dressed without much fuss, pulling on her tanktop but not bothering with full fatigues. She's due back on the surface this morning and will just have to don a flight suit momentarily. She takes a bit to rifle through her locker, grabbing some last minute possessions to take back with her. But the sound of bursting, and smell that accompanies it, distracts her from packing. "What in gods' names…?" Out of locker her head snaps, turning toward the smell.
Quinn's definitely more awake at hearing that mess from Allie's bunk, it's a good distraction from what she -thought- she heard from the Raptor Pilot, which was going to be a Not Pleasant situation quickly in and of itself. Still, Lucky's plight gets far, far more attention, Maggie swearing softly as she looks over to the woman. "Hey… Lucky… take a breath… calm down. People are just being shits… No reason to… to cause a fight…" Not that the person would step forward anyway. Maggie tries not to choke slightly on the scent, guiding Allie over to her bunk…"I… I gotta hit the showers anyway, have shift. You can crash in my bunk.."
Devlin pokes his head back out at that bellowing, the curtain twitched aside to permit the midshipman to blink at the room and the angry pilot and for his nose to wrinkle in obvious distaste as he looks around for the source. "Gross," he offers in the way of unhelpful commentary.
"Juno's dripping snatch," the fapping pilot curses, his free hand whipping his curtain open so his ruddy and flushed face looks down onto the room from the lofty height of the upper bunk. "Shut the frak up, el-tee. I was just getting to the good — " A sniff. A second sniff. "Shit. You twelve or some shit?"
The blonde, too, is forestalled from entering. "Generics are good," she's just been saying, "since my hair really isn't that bitchy — " And then, with only Cidra's bottle preserving her modesty, she too is poking her head out of the hatch with amusement writ large on her face.
"Wasn't us," the Raptor pair immediately avows. "Ask Greg," the ECO adds. "Been here taking his shit all night." He sniffs, too. "Damn, girl. Let me get my videocamera. Know a deckie with a sick mind who's looking for porn with hot chicks pissing."
"I don't want to sleep, Quinn," Allie hisses while trying to twist away from her, her body thrashed about violently. The thrashing is soon becoming a violent lashing of limbs when the ECO makes with the tasteless joke. "Let me go," she snarls while looking at the man, her face bright red. "Mother frakker. Come here and say that to my godsdammed face. Or are you too cowardly." Devlin and the others are all but ignored, her awareness of them shunted off to the side as a nice, blood-red haze falls over her vision, that being the second time she's seen the color in less than twenty-four hours' time.
"Tetchy," the ECO sniffs. "I'd ask who pissed her off but — too soon?"
"Too soon, mate," Greg confirms with a solemn nod. "Gotta watch your diction."
Cidra strides over to Alessandra's bunk, to have a look at what lies therein for herself. Hands on hips. Gaze to bunk, then up to Alessandra herself, then to the room at large. Blue eyes flashing. CAG is Not Amused. "You will shut up now, please." That directed at the pair at the table. She has the ability to wield pleasantries like invectives when she wants to. "Someone will tell me who did this and they will tell me right now."
Quinn isn't going to restrain someone against their will, even if she's worried. Maggie frowns, staring at the clock on the wall briefly, and then to the two in the middle of the room, and back to Lucky. And then, thank gods, to Cidra! Ahh, CAG has arrived. Truly, praise to the gods. Maggie didn't know how to deal with this otherwise. She shakes her head slowly to the CAG…"I… i couldn't tell…it happened so damn fast…" She admits, her best attempt to help as she does begin to slip towards the showers. She has duty too damn soon.
Devlin just sort of watches from the slightly out of the way vantage of Bubbles' top bunk, leaning out just a bit further so he can try to get a look at the hecklers in the middle of the room. And then the CAG appears and he wishes he had not stuck his head out so far, and begins sloooowly easing back into the bunk.
What Cidra sees — apart from a burst catheter bag poking out from Lucky's bunk — is a mess of graffiti by an anonymous hand, drawn in scarlet on the wall. It's a crude depiction of two women, one kneeling in a compromising position before the other, each of whom are captioned in their turn: the former, 'SOPRONIA'; the latter, 'COLL.' Below, 'CYLON-LOVER' is written in massive blocky letters.
J'accuse, as somebody from Virgon might say.
And from the various men and women standing or sitting or lying about, not a single word issues forth.
"Sir, no offense but this is going to be done my way." Snorting, Allie looks at Cidra with not so much as an apologetic aire about her, her tone polite yet one step shy of being an outright 'frak you…sir' in nature. Stepping around the puddle, she points to the smart-ass ECO and then turns her hand up so she can crook her finger. With all this done she misses the Major's discovery, that being a very good thing.
Quinn does catch sight of the graffiti, Maggie's sad eyes going just a hint wider. She shakes her head slowly, feeling half sick. The excuse of duty is a horrible blessing, because she is not certain she can handle being in this room a moment longer. "…I'm so sorry… Lucky…" Maggie whispers quietly, possibly not even heard, but the motherly heartbreak in her voice is undeniable. She then forces herself into the bathroom, dinner not sitting well on her stomach and a shower calling.
Greg looks sideways from Cidra to Alessandra to his ECO, who's trying his very hardest not to giggle. "On your own, my dear," he mouths, sitting stock-still in that chair.
And that ECO, arms crossed over his chest, refuses to move. "Horseshit," he says to Lucky, practiced insouciance in his manner. "I didn't do jack. Gods. That time of the month for you or something?"
Cidra inclines her head to Quinn, but any parting words she has for the LSO are forestalled. First by a flinty look to Alessandra. Tone was noted. Tone was not appreciated. The silence is also Not Appreciated. But has no real chance to respond to it, catching an eye-full of the graffiti. She exclaims something sharp, loud and angry, in a language that definitely isn't Colonial standard.
"The frak you didn't, you pansy ass frakking diseased excuse…I just lost my best friend and you…you…had to make a crass joke. So yeah, maybe you didn't have anything to do with that," Lucky points to her bunk to indicate the pissed-on bed and, unknowingly, the display of artwork on her bunk, "But you crossed a line just the same. Now you can either come here and take the beating you are so frakking due like a man or sit there, make me come to you and watch the frakking hurt be a million times worse."
Cidra might as well have shouted 'Devlin, get your head back in your bunk!' in Colonial Standard, because that exclamation from the CAG is like a cue for the nugget. Back in he pops, head pulled out of sight, curtain pushed back into place. It is possible that he is still peeping out the edge to see if Alessandra attempts to beat up the ECO, but. He is playing it safe.
"Got a better idea," the ECO suggests, a mocking smile on his face. "How about you go take a shower? Your head smells like a urinal. Me, I'm tired of taking all of Greg's worldly possessions anyway. I said my piece, Toast: I was sitting here playing dice with my pilot. Didn't see a damn thing because I was winning too hard. Now unless you've got any other questions, sir, I'm going to bed."
"I was looking for conditioner," calls the blonde from the head. "Ask Wacky the next row over. I was telling her I thought her shampoo-conditioner-two-in-one bottle that kind of looks like a fish or something when you turn it sideways was actually kind of — uh. Anyway," she says, with an abashed little grin. "Yeah."
"And I was on a date with Rosie and her five frakking friends," curses the irritable lieutenant from his bunk. "Now will all y'all shut up so I can get back to work?"
Cidra has acquired something resembling a tan on Sagittaron, but she's white-faced and tight-jawed now. True rage is something few have seen from the CAG. It is visible now. Unlike Alessandra's, however, anger runs cool rather than hot with her. "This is not funny." It is stated flatly and with absolute coldness. "This is vile. And I will not have this in my house. After all we have been through…This. Does. Not. Happen."
"Vile," the Raptor pilot repeats, gathering up the dice.
"Disgusting," says the ECO, tossing off a salute to the CAG while collecting his winnings.
"Not in this house," the blonde affirms, stepping at last into the shower.
"Unhf," mutters the lieutenant, yawning before pulling his curtains closed.
Alessandra's face contorts into a smile that no one should trust as it's not unlike one a mass murderer gets just before plunging the ax into the skull of their next victim or the kind of smile someone who hates puppies gets before trying to run one over with their vehicle. "You're right. I'll go get that shower right now." Turning, the cool, untrustworthy smile is given to the CAG, it softening marginally before she says anything. Cidra's not who she's angry at, after all. "I'll get someone in to clean this mess up, sir," she promises while grabbing her shower stuff out of her locker, that then closed and secured. On her way out she passes deliberately behind the ECO who she suddenly lashes out at, fingers seeking his hair as a hold. "Eat shit and die, asshole," she says while pushing forward and down quickly, the poor ECO about to meet table with nose if he can't stop her from doing so.
Cidra makes no real concerted effort to stop the burgeoning fight. Even though she knows it must be coming. At least, not until Alessandra has had time to nose-table the ECO. Then she feels obligated to break it up. "That is enough, Sophronia," she says, firmly but with a lack of sharpness in her tone. The rest of the room, however, gets sharp. "I am ashamed of you all." It is stated flatly. "And if such as this happens again, every pilot in my Wing shall devote a portion of their free hours for the next month to cleaning the Head in the Marines' personel berthing. We fight and fly and die together and this…this does not happen."
The ECO doesn't have time to react, and when his face comes up from the table, his shattered nose is all sorts of awry. Blood drips down his face as he grits his teeth in pain; drops of it splatter over the skin mag he's just gathered up in his arms, staining it a disgusting red. "You bitch," he snarls, spitting a mix of blood and phlegm onto Alessandra's departing back. "Go suck more skinjob teat. We fly and die." And chucking his winnings into his locker, his pilot by his side, he steps toward the hatch, doubtlessly en route to Sickbay — unless he's stopped.
"Oh whoops! I must have slipped, Major. How clumsy of me." Allie is smiling outright now, not quite putting finger to dimple but damn is she close to doing it if only to be that more annoying to the now-injured ECO who is watched out of the corner of her eye, the sight of blood comforting. "Say hi to the docs for me, jackass," she mouths before turning away, going to get someone to clean up the mess while she goes to get washed up, the pilot whistling a tune best described as 'jaunty' on her way through the hatch.
"You did not slip. He did. Into a table," Cidra states dryly. "Furniture can be very violent." She is not smiling. Incapable of real amusement at the moment. The pilot and ECO are given a very long parting look, but they are let to go on. "Clear eyes and steady hands, Lucky." If Alessandra gets someone to clean up the mess, all well and good. But Cidra makes a start of it at least. Returning to the head to track down some supplies to grafitti scrub.