| PHD #205: Blanket Party |
| Summary: | Not as comfortable as it sounds. |
| Date: | 19 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | All Cylon-lover plottage |
| Players: |
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| Isolated storage closet |
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| Boxes, bulkheads, uncomfortable deck plating |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #205 |
(Special thanks to Leyla and Argento for NPC'ing!)
It all starts with a pretty girl.
"Just got a head's up from a snipe I know," reports Private Juliet Mann, kicking back in her chair as she sets down her phone. It's oh-dark-hundred and the Security Hub is quiet as quiet can be. Constin will have no trouble hearing her voice, which cuts like a laser through the drone of spinning hard drives and the clack-clack-clack of a half-busted fan Engineering hasn't bothered to fix. "You're up, sarge. I worked the last B and E, remember? Two cans of baked beans from the galley. Least this time around, shit that's stolen might actually blow up."
Constin frowns with the report. "Shit. What's the locker number and listed contents?" the big man mutters as shifts weight forward in his seat to regain his feet, grabbing a clipboard with a stack of incident reports already in place as he does so, casting an eye toward Mann as he stretches his back.
"One-seven-one-niner-golf." The private flips her ponytail behind her neck, already reaching for her mouse. Firing up another game of Triad, no doubt, judging from the cards that now appear on her screen. "Arms locker on twelve, three corridors down from the range. Some hollowpoints, some frags, couple of flashbangs we picked up from Parn." Parnassus Anchorage, that is. "Awww, Sarge, don't look so glum. Remember: it could always be worse." And when the big man passes she'll whack him — hard — on his ass. "Thanks for being a dear."
Constin snorts at the quip about being glum, writing down the locker number as he starts toward the door. 1719-G.. "Yeah, least I'm getting off my-" A hard whack to the article of anatomy he was about to name gets a snorted chuckle and muttered, "Cheeky bitch," to Mann on the way out. Bootsteps clunk heavily on the deck plating as the sergeant's steps proceed briskly to the main ship's stair.
The stairwell isn't particularly crowded at this time of night — or day, as the case may be. A few deckies in orange shove past the burly Marine, as they've got eyes only for the Viper blueprints clutched in their grimy oil-slicked hands. When he passes deck nine, he's greeted with a bow by one of Karthasi's pet acolytes, the man's bald head bobbing in distracted recognition. But when he steps through the open hatch leading into deck twelve, he's met by something far less accommodating: a hatch that suddenly closes, propelled into his body by two hundred and forty pounds of Very Angry Man.
Constin's out like a light before he even hits the ground.
A masked figure is sitting on Constin's chest. It's Private Marlon Verne. He's slightly shorter but heavier than the sergeant. He grabs Constin by the shirt and lifts his head up, then slaps him hard across the face to wake him up. "Oh saaaaarge…"
When Constin's eyes blink open, all he sees apart from the big man on top of him is a room — but it's a room that can't possibly be Arms Storage Locker 1719G: there isn't a single weapon in sight. Instead, all he sees are boxes upon boxes of cleaning supplies, strapped against the walls to prevent shifting in flight. Some of them have been removed from their usual spots, strategically positioned to block off the view of the hatch. And illumination? Just a pair of flashlights set up in the corner, their beams pointing upwards to cast jagged shadows across the deck.
PFC Hannigan isn't one to mince words. Indeed, there are jokes going around that the thick-necked Marine cheated to get into the service and doesn't actually know any Caprican words, beyond the few he learned by rote and uses in field operations. But if there is one thing he's good at, it's getting people's attention. And just now, the SGT needs to be waking up. Quick. And that gets a swift kick with a steel toed boot in the side, just at the place where the ribs meet the softer flesh of his side. It's too bad Verne's sitting on his chest, as Hannigan seemed intent on kicking the man hard enough to shift him a few feet sideways on the ground.
Verne laughs as Constin comes to. "Rise and shine, sweetheart." With that, he pulls back a fist and slams it into Constin's face again and again. Signs of immediate bruising start to show around the sergeant's left eye.
Constin draws a hissed breath with that first kick to his side, immediately conscious of the heavy, pressing weight on his chest, the sergeant's boots flail, but as the fists start thudding into his face, the marine puts up only a token effort as shifting that weight off of him. "Five more minutes, momma," the sergeant grinds out derisively in answer to the 'Raise and shine', between punches.
And no fists, for Hannigan. Those could leave bruising on his own flesh, and that would just not be acceptable. But you can't trace boot prints, least not in the craphole the Cerberus is currently in, and so he begins his own litany, kicking at the man on the ground, in counterpoint to Verne's punches. Along his sides, into his stomach, his hips, working his way around, as though he were working up to a grand finale.
Verne laughs some more. "The cylon lover's got jokes!" Unsatisfied with Constin's lack of resistance, he picks Constin up off the floor, head butts him in the face, and throws him in Hannigan's direction so that the PFC can have a turn with the human punching bag. Constin lands in a pile of boxes, which collapse under his weight.
Now that Constin is off the ground, as it were, he's a very different animal, and it's time for hands, or at least the two soap-filled socks the man has in hand, spinning then to pick up speed, and increase the force. One heads towards Constin's face, soon followed by the other, sort of a double tap, the man's weight shifted back to send a kick at the side of his knee, hopefully hard enough to collapse it and send the SGT back to the ground.
Constin attempts to shift his head and avoid taking the headbut squarely on the nose, but robbed of his balance, does a piss-poor job of it. Recoiling with the blow, staggering on already bruising legs, the shove knocks him headlong into the crates, amidst the splinters. All the sergeant can manage is to shift onto one side in an incomplete attempt to get onto his back. "Yeah.." he grunts. "My momma hit harder than-" then the soap hits. It's the shot he doesnt see coming that truly ruins the big man's nose, already narrow blue eyes dazed as he stumbles back into the broken crate. His attention is focused on the ground near his boots. "You gonna get on with this? I ain't got all night."
Verne takes a few strides to stand over where Constin has stumbled. He swings a leg forward in a hard kick that knocks Constin onto his stomach. He raises a leg and stomps on the sergeant's back repeatedly, before kneeling down, pulling Constin's head back and slamming his head face first into the floor.
Hannigan moves around, ever wary. Who said Marine training would never come in handy except in the heat of battle. Though, all things considered, this is a battle. The SGT's free side, or at least the exposure of his back sends the marine back in, but he avoids the downed man's legs. Even a wounded horse can still kick, and as Verne turns the big man over on his back, oh so gently, the soap is coming down at his back, right in the area of his kidneys, the right and the left.
Constin grunts with each landed kick, or bludgeoning. He keeps trying to avoid lying facedown, rolling first to one side, then the other, but can't avoid headbutting the deck plating. Turning his head to one side, he takes the impact along the side of his forehead, setting the eye socket to swelling immediately. In moments like this, blacking out would be a mercy, but Constin has no such luck, only able to at last get onto his back and protect those abused kidneys.
Verne gets up and wipes some of the blood he's gotten on his hands onto a handkerchief. He shakes his head as he watches Constin roll left and right with such defiance. He raises his leg to stomp down on Constin's ribs a few more times, then steps back and glances over at Hannigan to see if the PFC looks satisfied.
His kidneys might be protected, but that leaves the entire front of his body mostly defenseless. And Hannigan is not a forgiving man. If the Sergeant wants to play like it's a walk in the park, he'll give him a walk in the park, and he steps in, not with his boot, but again with the soap, this time attempting to focus his attentions on the parts of his body the newly widowed Constin likely won't have much need of for the time being.
Constin can only see out of one eye by this point as Verne gets bored of stomping his ribs and rises. Effort made to keep his breathing regular, as Constin attempts to shift his weight to one side, lying on his back. Then.. that's when once again the soap blow lands unseen. Whereas before, the big man had grunted and winced with the injuries, that one draws a short shout, followed by a clenching of teeth, as he instinctively curls up on one side, willing air through his clenched teeth. Two short, rapid breaths, and the one serviceable eye he has left dracks open. Verne has turned away from him, looking somewhere else.. Abruptly bucking his hips, and turning, the downed sergeant attemnpts a hard kick from where he lies, aimed squarely at the masked man's kneecap.
Even Verne cringes as he watches Hannigan go after Constin's nads. No way Constin has any will left after getting beaten there. Or that's what he thinks until Constin delivers a well-aimed kick to Verne's knee, sending Verne to the floor, clutching his leg. "You crazy motherfracker!" he shouts as he struggles to get up, grabs one of Hannigan's soap socks, and starts whipping it into Constin's stomach.
Hannigan's socks are a matched set, hombre! But he's willing to give up one, if it goes to a good cause. And as much as he would like to do some permanent damage to the man, killing him isn't the point. Pain and the knowledge of what's waiting for him every minute of every day is the point. And so, he leaves off the below the belt merrymaking, and steps back up, almost hopping out of the way to avoid Constin's kick, and sends a full-powered strike of the soap, likely well pulverized by now. Oh, the sock will be soapy fresh in the morning, at Constin's temple.
"You ain't even seen crazy-" Constin grits out through the still acute pain of.. well, everywhere, by this point. Whatever the rest of his commentary would have been, the impact to his temple dazes the sergeant, who loses all track of his assailants, after that. The only other motions of his boots are blind spasms, not dangerous kicks. A rush of released air from the abdomen beating cuts off further words- even further grunts.
Verne is still whipping away at Hannigan's stomach when he sees that Hannigan has backed off. After one final elbow strike to Constin's ribs, Verne stands up, pulls back the bottom of his mask up above his mouth, and gargles phlegm. He spits at Constin, but the wad of spit misses and splatters on the floor next to the sergeant's face. Frak it. Verne limps towards the doorway after Hannigan, leaving Constin alone on the floor, in the dark.
And with that, today's lesson is over, kids. Hannigan steps away from the sergeant, join Verne as the two men move to depart the supply closet. They can find another one to wash off the traces of his blood, leaving the man behind to think on his mistakes.
Constin gasps in breaths without moving for a time. Gradually his wits settle enough to allow intelligent thought. Low words whisper out- ribs and guts acheing too much to breath deeper. The reflection on his mistakes runs as such: "Lauren?" Breath. "Think.. I'ma have to.. kill somebody."