PHD #043: EVENT - Clankers - Blood for Blood
Clankers — Blood for Blood
Summary: The civilians get to experience the terror that are the Cylons firsthand.
Date: 11 Apr 2041 AE
Related Logs: Concurrent with Blackout, Hammer and Anvil, The Heart of It All; a continuation of Smokescreen
Cappella Cilusia Damon Karthasi Petroski Santiago Stavrian Temperance Trask NPC Tucana 
Starboard Hangar Bay
This Hangar Bay is filled with boxes, crates and other various supplies that are needed throughout the ship. Most have been moved to one end and lashed with tarps to keep them out of the way. The place has gone from extra ship storage on one end and the ability to house over 450 people on the other end. Whatever could be made into cots has been set up like a huge barracks. Some areas have been made more presentable with a few items that belong to the person holding onto their small area in this world. Marines guard this area 24/7 and food is brought in cafeteria style, feeding people out of vats and buckets as they line up with their plates. One area has been tarped off to the side, that holds canvas showers and sinks. The 'Head' in this area has to be cleaned daily since it is a temporary military bathroom setup, due to there is no way to flush it out through pipes.
Post Holocaust Day: #43

Starboard hangar deck is where Stavrian spends about a third of his shifts these days. In olive-and-red, with the bright red brassards on both arms, he's easily identifiable as one of the crew to be flagged down for a medical problem. Right now he's kneeling by one of the hundreds of cots (some actual cots, some makeshift), checking an older man's eyes with a penlight.

Though she doesn't reside down here with the rabble, Santiago does visit fairly regularly, leaving the relative comfort of naval accommodations to hobnob with the less fortunate. Living with a bunch of deck apes is a questionable sort of step up. At least her bunk has one of those little curtains. She brushes off a crate, and perches near an elderly woman, discussing something quietly in a language that is definitely not Standard.

Karthasi finishes up prayer service over by a line of crates on which people are sitting, leading the group in a thinly voiced hymn to which only some of the individuals present seem to know the words or care enough to sing along. It's someplace different to sit and something different to listen to for a couple of hours every day, but the diversion, meager as it is, is wearing thin, as is audible in the weary drone of voices echoing along with the selection from the Theognidea.

Tolman krei ta didousi…
T'heoi t'nheitoisi brotoisi…

Pink-scrubs and a clipboard. That is what helps Petroski stand out, that along with how he follows Jesse aiding in setting him apart from the many people who have made this their home. "This is…" he starts to murmur while trying to remember the old man's name, finally just giving up; looking at Jesse as he does his job, Daniel just falls quiet, doing what paperwork he has to do while the medic is allowed to go about his business uninterrupted.

Stavrian glances up at Petroski, lips twitching, then back at the man he's sitting next to. "Mr. Zaglanikis. The right eye's fine, sir. The irritation is dryness, nothing more." He clicks the penlight off, standing up after an exchange of a few more quiet words with the ex-waiter. He picks up his pack, nodding goodbye and stepping off to Petroski's other side. "I think that's it of the appointment requests until 15:00…" A pause and he turns his head away to cough hard into his hand — the effects of the Eidolon last night are still wracking his chest. Greje and Santiago are noted over yonder when his eyes open again.

With a shake of her head, Santiago replies to the old woman, this time in Standard, "No, I don't think that's possible today, Tutu. I'll ask, but the stick up Ramon's ass is fairly immobile." Mostly in Standard, or that's a nickname. She passes off something small, her manicured hand resting in a heavily wrinkled, and age spotted hand for just a moment. "Malama pono." She sits there for a moment more, listening to the response that passes wizened lips, and nods. She rises, smoothing a hand over the bright white dress she wears. Stand out? Sure, Santi does that too, though she's not quite as pretty in pink as other visitors to the Bay. "A hui hou." She glances up, eyes passing over the other occupants of the room. Her eyes light on the services, then zero in on the pink scrubs, and skip to the medic, too. She smiles slightly, and takes her leave of the old woman.

Greje's own voice crackles a little as it arcs into the next note, on the high end of her range for the part in the music she's aiming for: "Rheey-i-di-os de p'herein…" lowering into something more genial to her pipes, "Amp'hoteron to lak'hos." Two fingers of her right hand, forefinger and middle finger, move in time to the music, as a conductor trying to keep the choir on the beat. It's a feeble gesture, though, and everyone seems to come along to the end of the verse in his or her own good time.

"Thank you," Dan intones softly after his memory's jogged, Mr. Zaglanikis' name written down so the can be filed in its proper place when the time comes. "Do take care, sir," he offers to the elder man, giving him as much of a smile as he can muster although it turns into a concerned frown once he hears Stavrian's coughing like he does. "Are you sure you're well enough to be here, Jesse," he asks as he looks around, his narrow gaze passing from Santiago, over faces he barely recognizes (those of the civilians) to the Sister and those taking part in the services. "I don't mean to mother you, but you do sound horrible. Have you at least gotten yourself looked at?" It's all said out of worry, of course and is probably unnecessary but he just can not help himself.

"You've got the wrong parts to be mothering me, anyway." Stavrian clears his scratchy throat and smirks at Petroski. "I've already had it looked at. There's not much I can do about it." He shoulders his pack, hiking it up his arm. His hand lifts subtly in greeting to Santiago across the way, then he gently scratches his nose with his thumb, looking back at Daniel. "Could use a little water though." His head moves, signaling close to where Greje's giving service.

Santi raises a hand to briefly wave to the medic and… nurse? Something about Daniel wandering around in pink scrubs just seems to make her smile. The Aquarian ahem-'diplomat'-ahem makes her way through the mine field of cots closer to where the service is being held. She turns her eyes that way, and listens, hand sliding behind her back, fingers loosely laced.

Once everyone's finally finished singing, or… sighing, or whatever it was they were doing to the words of the hymn, Greje lets her hand drop to her side, looking more than a little exhausted, herself, and looking from face to bleary face is a whole world of not helping. But the folk aren't here to cheer -her- up— rather, the other way around, and so, taking a deep breath, she lifts her hands together, lacing fingers in fingers. "I know that— hem-" she has to clear her throat, once, before going on, "I know that it's one thing to sing of bearing up under duress, and another thing actually to be doing so. I know that you're… I know that -we're- all quite tired. I think— it may be in our interests to recall the other side of the coin of Theognis' warning not to despair in adversity: Remember not to rejoice overmuch at sudden blessings, until we should see the sum total of all things. For everything given to us in life may be taken away again. This we all understand, I think, more keenly than Theognis himself ever might have. But with great Foresight sang the sage."

"Well, if you've gotten yourself checked out, I'll behave and stop trying to play nursemaid." The roguish grin comes into being and does so in full-force, his dark eyes sparkling. Santiago's waved to although she might have turned around just before the greeting's offered, his hand raised and fingers waggled at about his ear level. "Been a while since I've made it to Chapel. Want to see what it is the Sister's speaking on today?" As if anticipating Jesse's agreement to his suggestion, Daniel begins to head that way, his hand reaching up to tug the talisman he wears free from under the scrubs top he has donned.

"I don't want to i-…" Cough. "Interrup-…" Cough. "…her." Gah. Stavrian clears his throat again, taking his sleeve away from his mouth. "Just need some water, honestly." He starts that way after Daniel, sliding his thumb under the strap of the medic bag that's tight around his shoulder. As they get closer to the listening Santiago, he lowers his voice. "Ms Blue. Been a while."

The green eyed civvie glances over, a slight turn of her head allowing her eyes to light on Stavrian. "Jesse. It has." She smiles slightly, just a little twitch of the corner of her mouth. "Are you well?" The question is light, conversational. She probably noted the difficulty he had on approach. Her words, too, are pitched quietly to as not to interrupt the service in progress. Her gaze flicks to Petroski, who seems to usually be in tow when she encounters Jesse. "Daniel. This is a new look for you."

"Theognis may have intended us to think of future happinesses in our hours of despair. But I would ask of you," Greje takes a moment, looking down to her hands, the way her fingers are laced into one another, "Simply not to assume the now as the sum of all your experiences. Not to let this moment, this sorrow, this suffering be all that there is for you. If you find it impossible to think of future blessings, then think you on the blessings you have had in the past, ones which you thought, perhaps, you might never lose. Consider those, too, as part of the sum totals of your lives. Don't make this sorrow your everything. Don't let it define you. Remember yourselves. Know yourselves," she finishes up with the inscription on Apollo's temple at Delphi, then, having lost what steam she had, "So say we all," she closes the assembly, lifting one hand into a motion of blessing.

Petroski nods. "It's something I promised Jesse I'd do," that being the wearing of pink. "I'd do anything for him. Like get him a cup of water." Leaning over, he whispers to Stavrian, "Just a moment. Don't go anywhere, eh?" The 'so way we all' is echoed by him as he departs, Daniel going to get the needed water. It'll take a bit as he has to get to where it's kept and then navigate his way back around cots and bodies, the entire task taking several minutes at least.

Stavrian smirks at Petroski's back. "Thanks." Once the man's headed off, he looks back at Santiago, one hand subtly waving off the concern. "I'm fine. Dry throat." It sounds like more than that, but that's where he's going to leave it. He moves his chin, indicating where Petroski got off to. "Don't let him fool you. He's been in training to work up here. Good man; the pink's just frosting." He lifts his sleeve in front of his mouth, muffling another short round of dry coughs. Hopefully that didn't jar Greje — his eyes flicker that way to make sure it didn't, with a slight grimace. Back to Santiago: "Have you been alright?"

Santiago inclines her head slightly, one ear, still turned toward the service, caught the last of the blessing. She nods to Greje, eyes returning to the sister. "So say we all," she replies, with rather more conviction than a woman who's running low on hair gel should have. Her voice carries, the reply coming hot on the heels to the sister's intonation of the traditional words. Her attention returns visibly to Stavrian with a brief skip to Petroski as he offers his affirmation of devotion to the medic. "There's something to be said for frosting." She nods. "I've been better. I've also been worse, holocaust aside. Day to day here isn't as bleak as it could be." That's a rave review from Aquaria's delegation. Oh, yeah. "I have some hard candies if you'd like one. They're hot, but sweet."

For all that nobody looked particularly enthusiastic to be at services, nobody seems particularly enthusiastic to leave, either, maybe because the only places they have to go are back to their cots, and some of them would rather chew off their own hindsides than go sit over there again. So after a chorus of so-say-we-alls, they all continue to loiter around the makeshift pew, talking to one another over water, discussing Theognis and gossiping about goings-on aboardship. Greje, for her part, heads to fetch some water, herself, dried out with talking, and, in doing so, offers Daniel a mild sort of smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Petroski," she tells him, voice whispery dry before a sip or two of water starts to alleviate the problem.

[Intercom] Cilusia says, "Now hear this: Intruders aboard! Repeat, intruders aboard! Cylons have breached the repair bay! Repeat, Cylons have breached the repair bay! MPs please respond!"

"Ah. Hello, Sister. It has been quite a while since we last got to talk. I do apologize for that. Been busy with work." Daniel gives her a rueful smile and then he adds under his breath, "You can call me Dan or Danny if you'd like. Or Daniel if you must dote on formality," it spoken into her ear just about as he leans in. The conversation would continue on his end but the alert sounds, causing his eyes to go wide. "What the frak…oh, sorry, Sister."

Santiago glances down at the small, silvery colored time piece. Just before the comms go off, she says, "I have a previous engagement. Feel better, Jesse." She offers up a tiny wrapped candy as she goes, his to claim or refuse. By the time the intercom sounds, she's already on her way out. That step picks up a bit. Oh, yes. Yes, it does.

<Intercom> Attention! Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship.

Stavrian had his hand out gratefully for the candy, when suddenly — hoshit. He jams the thing in his pocket, his blue eyes slightly widened at the actual comm message. Around him, the civilians sitting nearby have a moment of almost comical complete silence…and then chaos breaks out. Someone leaps to their feet, nearly knocking the medic over in the process, and he stumbles back into a table with a hard thud. "Whoa whoa whoa!" He can't yell very loudly, forcing his irritated throat to go above and beyond. "Everyone stay calm! Move /back/ towards the far bay doors." Away from the general direction of the repair bay.

"Danny," Greje seems amenable to using the nickname, even if her tone of voice seems altogether too proper to be saying a word like 'Danny.' And then, eyes wide, she doesn't reply to his apology for his foul language, only endeavoring to recall the map of this whole area in her mind. Repair bays. Where are those? Fortunately, Jesse begins to herd people in the appropriate direction, and she sets down her cup of water near the dispensary to be forgotten in the panic, looking over to the row of crates pulled out into the makeshift pew for services, then to Daniel, "Perhaps we could move some more crates and form a barrier of sorts for people to withdraw behind should the Cylons enter this portion of the bay." This, beginning with looking at Daniel, but ending with her eyes fixing on several people within earshot who'd been at services. Several people who look like they'd been particularly hale in a former life, if not particularly so now.

[Intercom] Oberlin says, "All hands, hostile contacts reported aboardship. Adhere to Boarding Protocol Constellation Deacon-Niner.

"Go, Greje," Daniel all but shouts, forgoing proper titles now. "Get to Jesse." Without a proper weapon himself, Daniel finds himself growling; he has no access to a gun, not that he'd want to use it even if he did, and his fencing gear's locked away in a weapons' locker after it all had been checked in, making having to improvise a necessity. Peering about himself, he tries to find something he can use, his gaze kept towards the deck while chaos breaks out around him.

There's a tiny fireteam in here — three Marines, with a fourth coming sprinting in from guard duty just outside the hatch. Stavrian draws his sidearm from its holster, this being the only projectile weapon he's got, and swiftly checks it. "Secure this bay," he calls to the Marines. "Hatches sealed. Get these people to the far doors, fan them out." Because, you know, if a cylon started shooting you don't want it to be fish in a barrel, here. He makes a V with his fingers, pointing at defense positions that'll guard the hundreds of humanity…with five soldiers. "Two there, A. Two there, B. I'll be with A." He turns around, barely able to hear anything over the mass of shouting, both civilian and military now. Hopefully those people Greje just called to are paying attention. Crates would be great.

[Intercom] Polaris says, "Now hear this! Intruders have breached Sickbay, say again, intruders have breached Sickbay and are proceeding up the stairwell to — gurgleCLANK. CLANK. CLANK.static"

Karthasi looks baffled and a little rattled as she's yelled at to go find Jesse, but, spotting the man in question, he seems falling in with the marine guards, who are falling into position like it was their job so to do. She doesn't have a gun, nor does she seem interested in finding one. For her part, she jumps up onto one of the crates and then down to the other side, a couple of others who'd been listening following her lead, beginning to shove out the row of crates further into the room. Greje and a particularly strong-looking civilian woman grab up another crate to stack on top of one in the row in front, and, slowly but surely, the barricade advances, shoves forward a foot at a time as other people get the jist of what's going on, coming along to add more crates to the line and continue to shove the wall outward from behind, making a sort of shallow sanctuary. Once the work is underway, Greje herself heads out amongst the cots toward the more infirm of the bay's inhabitants, "Danny! Help me here!" she calls, trying to get those in the worst shape back into a safe place behind the growing wall.

Petroski lets those who are going to flee do so as they will, his quest pretty much taking all his attention. "Where…wha…AH!" Finding a piece of reebar or something similar, Daniel picks it up and makes with a few testing thrusts to check the balance and heft. It isn't at all what he'd expect from one of his sabers or epees but it'll have to do, now won't it? Body tensing, he runs to where he sent the Sister and her flock, the quest now being to get to where the Marines are and, hopefully, safety.

One of the Marines runs off to get the main hatches sealed. The others, much better armed than the unfortunate Stavrian and the masses of others, sprint towards the civilians to help herd. Stavrian gets caught in a coughing fit at the worst time, eyes watering from the force of it, and sucks in a breath before he calls out hoarsely, "Down on the ground once you've got cover! Keep your heads down, behind whatever you can." Like a crate wall. Man, they're awesome. He jogs quickly towards the pair of Marines designated Team A, grabbing a crate to help push up into that flimsy wall.

The crate wall burgeons straight out into the middle of the room, the area behind growing more and more pregnant with civilians, the area in front shoving together the first rows of cots and beginning to upset them. The wall is only two crates high, any higher than that it gets hard to lift up the crates to set on top, for untrained civilians. Hearing the further instruction from Jesse, Greje lifts up her voice to pass it down the line, "Down on the ground! Everone down on the ground, pack in… get to know your neighbor a little better!" she calls to them, getting a couple of cots moved back there for people too invalid to move, while others crawl straight under the cots with one another, or lie packed on the ground, heads near the crates, beginning to fill the space on one end of the enclosure while people continue to ransack the collection of crates, tearing down the tarps and grabbing whatever they can in groups of three or four to grow the wall and get some cover for themselves, too.

[Intercom] Polaris says, "Now hear this! Centurions advancing down from Deck 6! They took the Marine berthings completely by surprise! Casualties high and we're trapped inside — and — oh, frak, frak, frak, I think they got our air supply — request an engineering team now before — DAMMIT, Vonn, the OTHER manual release —"

"Jesse!" Daniel doesn't see him which puts him on panic mode for a while, it causing his heart to race and his hands to go clammy. "Mother frakker." Shaking his head, he has to literally push past people to get to the crates where he crouches; unlike many of those who are ducking he peeks up over the edge of the cargo box he has picked to take cover behind, wanting to keep situationally aware if possible.

Port Hangar. /So/ not good. Stavrian catches Petroski's eye just long enough to confirm that yeah, he's still walking. As the marines finish up helping with the barricade, they hurry back in front of it behind boxes of their own, taking knees. The medic does the same, slightly behind them, his blue eyes looking worriedly over the tarp and box-covered civilian masses — and the priestess — and then front again. "Eyes towards Port hangar," he tells the marines, voice tense.

[Intercom] Polaris says, "Godsfrakkingdammit, engineering, where the frak is that shitfrakked team? Get the frak up here before — oh, oh shit. oh shit, shit shit — somebody patch that fissure — duct tape for all I frakking care! — clang"

The wall takes shape, it seems to Greje, as if Poseidon and Apollo had once more joined forces in its creation. Whatever adrenaline had helped her shove those last few crates into place seems to flag for a moment as she lifts her hand as if to lay a blessing on the structure, and, between the civilians shuffling for places behind the cover, on top of one another, crying out at elbows in backs, the messages over the comms telling of more and more destruction aboardship, she comes up with absolute jackshit, staring blankly at the structure as if she couldn't even name it if she tried.

"…" Looking down at himself, Dan realizes just what he's wearing, that being the set of pink scrubs he wore which gets stared at for a while. "Cripes." Reaching down with his off hand, the scrubs top gets yanked off over head, bearing his torso; while naked from the waist up now, it's much better than wearing that bright color which just might attract attention to himself. That gets set aside while he entertains the thought of removing his pants but that's an idea that is never acted upon, sparing people from seeing what it is he does….or doesn't…wear under them.

[Intercom] Polaris says, "Now hear this — four — in the Viper — manufacturing — dropped in right on top of — " The voice gasps weakly for breath. "Opening — opening the manual vent. Can't hold — can't — " A harsh and bloody cough. "Frak them up good for us.""

Stavrian stays on one knee, the ball of his back foot pressed against the ground in preparation to sprint if he has to. His hands are wrapped around his dark service pistol, temple about at level with the muzzle of the Marine's rifle right next to him. The din of the civilians behind their crate wall has become a low buzz to him, partly drowned by the fast thudding of his own heartbeat in his ears. His eyes stay fixed towards the Port Hangar side.

Karthasi finally gets her mouth to move enough to say -something.- That 'something' might just be the opening five words of scripture, the five words of scripture that everyone knows, even if they have no scripture knowledge whatsoever. She lets them bumble out of her mouth along with a sign of blessing, and she tucks herself around the side of the last crate in the line, going to her knees, looking down the sea of people, then lowering her head to her knees and clasping her arms over her head.

Petroski's not being the smartest person as far as the civvies go, his over-welling sense of duty and his over-eagerness to face the enemy stripping him of the more important common sense that would have him ducking down and behaving like he should. "How many do you think there are," he whispers, trying to ask Jesse or one of the nearer Marines but he doesn't dare speak too loudly which probably will mean he's going to go without being heard.

Stavrian barely moves his head, not taking his eyes off those doors. "I don't know. They didn't have the courtesy to call ahead for reservations." He exhales tensely, jerking his head back towards the boxes. "Stay back there in cover, Daniel. If we're blessed they won't get through, but…" But. Yeah.

Karthasi drapes wrist over wrist, the crown of her head touching the crate in front of her, and her shoulder, up against another woman's, there, packed in dense behind the wall, begins to shake, the priestling endeavoring to stifle either tears or laughter. Or quite possibly both.

"Wot…'ey now. I can't let you have all the fun now, love," Daniel easily retorts, before falling quiet, the mood sobering him quickly. Sure, he's all bravado and heroics right now but he knows how grave the situation is, it being something they all might not walk away from. Gods, just let Winnie and Richard survive.

"Daniel," Stavrian's voice gets sharp suddenly. "If you haven't noticed, they have guns. We have guns. You? Do not have a gun." His eyes turn upwards finally. "You wanted to do something for these people? Then /please/…go keep them calm. Things start shooting in here, people are going to panic." And that? Will be extremely bad.

But nothing -has- started shooting in here, after all of that, and several of the cramped civvies are beginning to follow Daniel's lead in getting up to peek over the wall and see what's going on. Feeling something move several bodies down, Greje turns her head and peeks over. "Please stay down until we're given the all-clear," she calls down the line. "Keep your head down, covered and as close to the barrier as you're able." For all you can say about her cold, crisp accent, she does have a sort of airline stewardess vibe going, recounting what to do in straightforward, almost soothing terms.

This gets Daniel to bristle but it isn't Jesse's fault in the least, his reaction instead borne out of the fact that he's having to fall into a state of inactivity. "Fine. But if they come at us…like real close to us…I can't promise I won't do something…" Stupid. It'll be something stupid but he's not going to just sit there while a bloodbath begins.

Everyone's in a state of inactivity, really. Just that the Marines have guns pointed at the doors. Stavrian turns his eyes back towards port, shifting slightly on his knee. "Do what you would have everyone else around you do," he says under his breath. "Because they will follow those they know." Like they're doing now, which he notices after a quick glance behind them. He blinks, slightly horrified. "Daniel, /please/ go help the priestess. For the love of the gods."

Karthasi can't quite be heard all the way down the line, and so she pulls back from her spot at the end of the line of crates, drawing up to a low crouch, and she begins picking her way over and around people, reiterating the message in a low voice every five feet or so, reaching to place a hand on the backs of people who look about to be getting up, "Please be patient. Wait until we get the all-clear. Just keep your heads down. Forehead on the floor. Arms over your head. Good."

Petroski nods and crawls over to where the Sister is, trying to whisper encouragingly to those he passes while doing so. "It'll be alright," he murmurs to a scared woman who has gotten separated from her husband, her sobbing getting to where it's just shy of becoming hysterical sobbing. Getting his heartstrings tugged, he simply stops there and tries to comfort her, doing what little he's able to by patting her arm and murmuring to her.

The starboard hangar deck's been a mess of activity since the first alert went off. The hundreds of civilians here fled the open center area, herded back towards the farthest doors from the Port bay and fanned out. Greje, Petroski, and many of the others have constructed a wall of crates, tarps, and whatever else they could grab, the civilian population now crouched and lying behind those in hope of some flimsy cover. In front of it, ready for a defense, the 4-Marine fireteam and Stavrian face the port hangar bay, armed with rifles (or sidearm, in the medic's case).

The sound of gunfire and chaos and a couple of explosions, combined by the klaxons of fire alarms rain throughout the connecting passageways on the hangar deck level. They happen in a short burst, the explosions, but the other sounds become progressively closer. In the distance there's the sound of automatic weapon fire and *CLANK* *CLANK* *CLANK*.

Closer to home, though, others have invaded the general space of the Starboard hangar area. Stragglers. Human stragglers. At the end of the line is Lance Corporal Harlan Brenner, calm but alert as he holds up his weapon, waving the people through. "Hold! We're friendlies. But they're coming this way!"

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" One of the Marines on the starboard fireteam calls back as he hears Brenner. The other three and Stavrian all do so, which is a good thing since Brenner was pretty close to eating a hail of bullets. Stavrian sucks in a breath, letting go of the pistol with one hand and wiping the sweat off his palm onto the side of his trousers. "How many are over there?"

Cappella comes in behind the wounded parties. He stops when he reaches the friendly lines, moving behind the cover and preparring to cover the bay. "We have at least 4 Metal heads on our tail, possibly more. Is there anyway to get those people out of here?"

The clamor from without the wall evokes an avalanche of frightened screams and exclamations from within the wall, but at the very least the few stragglers who'd been trying to peek are now belly-on-the-floor with the rest of them. The priest herself just sort of cringes where she is, one knee on the floor, one foot on the floor, knee up nearer her chest as she holds her arms up before her. When the chatter begins, she inches into motion again, picking her way along the prone crowd, here and there putting a hand on the back of someone visibly trembling.

When Trask arrives, it's dressed in his flight suit and helmet, with a profusely-bleeding-from-the-abdomen Damon being shouldered. "We need a medic!"

Stavrian. HEY. He's a medic. "Sta - Stav - Stavrian?" Temperance calls hesitantly, finally getting his name right. Hey, she's only met him once, and they weren't exactly chitchatting through the burning acid gas in the air. "'Elp! He's sho'!" She lowers her gun and points at Damon with the medkit in her other hand.

The tallied total is Cappella, Cilusia, Damon, Temperance, Trask, and Sitka. The pilots are still in their flight suits. Brenner counts them off one by one. "What you see is what you get." The Lance Corporal sighs. "We took some casualties back there. They burst through the goddamn wall. Out of the repair bay. We think they hit the Viper fab plant too. Chatter from all over the ship. We're cut off and fell back here." He gives his report to the other marines somberly. "And we count at least four coming this way. Maybe more. Every time we take one down, one or two more spring up. Like Demons."

Sho'? Stavrian gives the red-haired woman a strange look, then turns his attention to Trask. Hey, visuals are great. "Over here, Trask!" He waves the man towards the crate he and half the tiny fireteam had staked out, hand yanking up the top of his medic bag. His eyes keep flickering to Brenner as the man gives the sitrep, a grimace twisting his lips. "Shit. Alright. What you see is what you get here too. We got some positions with minor cover. All unarmed are back behind there." He lifts his chin to the Great Wall o' Crates behind them.

Cilusia follows in behind Temperance and Trask, looking back over her shoulder frequently. Whatever she's able to see or hear in there, causes her to shiver, visibly shiver as she brings up the rear with her pistol vaguely held back in that direction. Yeah, might have to talk about that image later on. On her way through, she's been shutting every hatch and door that she can, regular or security or what.

Slung over Trask's shoulder, Damon is not at his best ever. He's bleeding badly from his gut, which looks to have been shot up by the Cylons. He still clutches a rifle in his right hand, absolutely refusing to let go of it even in his state. The occasional groan or grunt of pain as he's carried along.

All those years lugging around heavy ship parts has paid off. "Hold on, PO," the ECO murmurs to Damon. As they draw closer, he asks the medic, "Where you wan'im?" Saying 'over here' isn't exactly precise.

Cappella remains where he is, kneeled with the Marines and just kinda waiting, as he scans the room he realizes he may have just become the senior officer again, and frowns. "We have to hold them here."

"Here here." Stavrian motions right where he's kneeling. "Set him down, let me see. Get his rifle, please." Someone else can shoot with that. "Soon as we hear cylons, need to get him back into that cover back there."

Clank. Clank. Thump. Thump. Echoing from the distance, the engines of death plod closer. Brenner takes up position as the sitrep is fully delivered. "Let's keep them covered then." He says over towards the fireteam and Stavrian. "At all costs. So long as one of us draws a breath, they're not getting past." He seems rather calm consigning himself to the possibility of certain death, fingering something on a chain beneath his collar. "Evlogitarion." Pausing. "Kyrie." And then a muttering of something clearly religious. Wacky Gemenese.

And there's cylons. D'oh.

Gee, thanks for the rifle Damon. Cilusia's not shy about trading her pistol for the rifle he had been using. Even so, she pats him on the shoulder when she does, snagging come cover behind a cargo container or whatever the frak it is. She points the rifle at the door, waiting and watching again.

As carefully as he can manage setting down a man who weighs at least 200 pounds — which includes some grunting from Trask and an off-hand comment of, "You need to lay off the snack cakes, PO. Seriously." — the ECO sets Damon down.

Cappella says, "There's a lot of them; they are bigger then we are; they are cold, unfeeling, soulless machines. We do not fall back, we do not fail, and we do not die. That is an order, Marines. These Civilians only have us to protect them, are you going to let them down?"

Stavrian gives Cappella an irritated look. His eyes turn back down to Damon, assessing quickly with grit teeth. "Shit," he mutters to Trask. "I'm not going to be able to do anything this quickly… he'll hold. Get him into cover, I can hear those frakking things coming."

"But they're… so… delicious…" Damon says through a grunt of pain to Trask. What a hell of a set of last words those would make. But he's holding in there, as well as he can, anyhow. The rifle's relinquished to his crewmate, though it takes him a bit to grab the extra magazine from his pocket to hand over to Cilusia as well. "Frak," he sighs when Stavrian says he can't do anything right now. "Just give me something for the pain."

"They're coming, all right. We got weapons?" Brenner finishes his little prayer. "And we have anyone else trained to use them? We'll form a line around this barricade to focus fire on these butchers. They can die. I've seen it. Go for the neck and the head if you're trained. If not, just spray. And pray." He repeats. "Oh, pray." He hunkers down behind a crate now and puts his weapon up.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANK. CLANK. It's not long now. Here they come.

Temperance just stands by Trask and Stavrian, listening to everything said about Damon with clenched teeth. She can't do anything about any of that, so she just braces herself and moves into position as per Brenner's orders. She tries, she really does, but a couple of tears fall before she's able to blink them all away.

Stavrian's eyes flicker to Brenner, stuck on the man for a long moment as if something had just tapped the edge of his consciousness. A slight frown, but he's too busy thinking about Damon to turn it over much in his head. "Here." A syrette grabbed from his bag, needle plunged into Damon's upper arm. A little morpha, happy birthday. "Now, quickly." He motions to someone nearby to get Damon back behind the bigger cover. No time.

Trask moves on to Plan B: dragging Damon behind cover. Thankfully, it's not far. "I know, PO. I know." Oh, those snack cakes. "But that's why it's called self-control." A quick glance is cast at Stavrian. One that seems to indicate the classic 'yeah' of the way the world works.

[Intercom] "CIC is under attack!" A high and panicked voice cuts through the intercom — wherever it's working, that is. "All personnel not engaged in combat to CIC, say again, all personnel not engaged in combat to CIC, now, now, now!"

Morpha. Morpha! Wheeeeeeee! Damon's arm relaxes, the pistol he just got from Cilusia dropping onto the floor with a clatter as he's dragged away. His eyes start to glaze over a bit. Happyland, here we come. It's not long before he's mostly oblivious to what's going on around him, drifting off in his own little world.

The fireteam starts fumbling around, two of the marines have spare sidearms that they offer up. Brenner himself managed to grab a fallen rifle in the passageway, also holding it. "Weapons if needed. Anyone? Anyone?"

Stavrian holds out his hand for the rifle. Forget the damn pistol. "Lance, here."

Karthasi looks aside to Trask as he comes around the side of the barricade with Damon, and she picks her way down along the line of prone civilians, hands and feet all creeping along the floor at any spot left bare by strewn limbs until she gets to the downed solider, keeping an eye on him there.

WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP. CLANK. CLANK. CLANK. *hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm* *hummmmmmmmmmm* All the signs of the Cylon Death Squad are on the march as there emerge a series of figures along the edge of the corridor. Those up front will see them and recognize the silhouettes and outlines of Cylon Centurions getting closer and closer.

Brenner sits in cover behind his box as the other fire team gets in a position. They triangulate for optimum fire focus.

"Here they come!" One of the marines shouts.

For his part, Trask scarcely notices Karthasi, catching her only in his peripheral vision. That is to say that he's aware /someone/ is closing in on his personal space, just not /who/. That's because his attention is on the hangar door, readying a shot.

And the firefight begins. It's not pretty. It's the result of an irresistible object meeting an immutable force. The Colonials are dug in, in their makeshift firebase. Rounds are exchanged. The engines of death keep coming. They just keep coming.

Stavrian is keeping a careful eye on where bullets are hitting. And a careful ear for the sounds of screaming. As the firefight starts he cracks off a shot at the centurion trying to full-auto the fireteam near him, swearing at the non-AP rounds do… well, nothing. Sick.

From behind the cover of a container, Cilusia lets fly with a burst from the borrowed rifle. One pings uselessly off the chest armor, and the other bullets are hit or miss. Either way, the net result is that the clanker isn't stopped; it just keeps thumping forward. "MOTHER FRAKKER," Cilusia exclaims, doing her best to keep from hopping up and just firing full-auto from the hip. Instead, she aims, and fires again.

Cappella just keeps firing from behind his crate his bullets score on the Cylon, but miss the eye. As he takes a hit in the left shoulder, he curses but moves the gun to the other hand and keeps shooting.

This is the second flight suit to get damaged within the past 24 hours. Unlike the last time, however, Trask finds himself injured. Even through gritted teeth, the pained grunt he makes isn't all that quiet. Brow now knitted and mouth taking a severe turn, he adjusts his stance to accommodate for the moderate wound in his right shoulder, and then pulls the pistol's trigger.

Stavrian feels that slug rip right into the middle of his camos. It feels like a bee sting for a few precious seconds where his mind's not sure what just hit him, a rush of heat only following afterwards. He's down onto his heels before he can even register what happened, pain flooding up his sides and down the front of both legs. "Brenner!" His own legs leave blooms of blood on the ground as he struggles for the bleeding Lance corporal.

Great. The one time Trask manages to hit his target, the bullet pings off, scarcely leaving a scratch.

Once more, Cilusia's burst pings uselessly of the Centurion's armor. She was doing better shooting at their heads with a pistol! Man, the Chief is never going to let her live this down, given that he pretty much specifically said to get in more rang time. For something just like this! "GODS FRAKKING DAMMNIT!" she pretty much screams out, as well as various Scorpian additions to that comment. All the while, she fumbles for the selector to go full-auto on these tin cans.

It's chaos. Two of the marines in the fireteam are dropped as the Centurions start to let the gunfire rip, mowing their targets down. The remaining two fall back. And through the panic and the commotion, Brenner is hit as he howls in pain, muttering something else resembling a prayer as he holds a hand to his wound. He stands his ground, though. Stands fast. Sister Karthasi isn't the only one using prayer as a weapon today. "Ahhghh." He tries to wave off Stavrian weakly as he fires ineffectively.

And then there's some commotion from the back as two marines who did something very smart earlier emerge, coming up the staircase, through the civilians with some fresh weaponry bundled with them. "CLEAR. HOLD THE LINE, WE'VE GOT SUPPLIES." One of them barks. They have a couple rifles. And a couple pistols, and a couple clips. It'll take a few moments for this stuff to get to the troops and in position, though.

Cappella doesn't move from position he still has rounds in his gun, he does start to bark out orders. "Wounded pull back with civilians and handle reloading, anyone who needs new ammo get it from those marines." He stays on the front line firing, "Brenner, get the frak down."

Karthasi can't do much for Damon back here but to set her knee by him and utter a prayer, tremory voice artfully covered by the rampant gunfire. "K'haireto hemeteros Basileus Soter ta Pater te," she intones around the bullets. And then the marines are coming through with supplies, and she looks up, accepting a box of extra ammunition and taking up a post there to reload weapons as they get passed back. That she can do.

"My God protect you. Fall back. FALL BACK!!!" Brenner howls as the Cylons press their charge. "Move 'round cover and focus fire. Doc!" He yanks Stavrian back after the man gets hit, hauling him behind a box himself.

With at least one machine driven a teeny, tiny bit off course or whatever by suppressing fire, Cilusia keeps the selector on fully automatic. No sense in not blowing through the remainder of the clip ASAP to swap to the new, good shit the marines brought back.

Stavrian makes it to Brenner just in time to get canned again on the arm. Holy damn, NOW that hurts. He pushes off Brenner. "The pilot!" he calls out, his arm wrapped around his bleeding midsection as he moves for Temperance. Their job to shoot, his to make sure nobody dies.

"In the name of the all-seeing God of Justice." Brenner's just in full-on zealot mode now as he moves back, grabbing a clip from the fireteam too as it gets shoved to him, ducks behind another crate as he falls back. "You will not pass here. Hold the line, people!"

Cappella watches the shots come out, he winces, especially at the explosion of blood from Temperance's direction, he pulls back and moves to change out ammo, accepting one of the reloads from the Marines.

Trask is ahead of the pack, having already swapped his standard ammo with AP rounds. The trick now is to hit his target.

Temperance misses the Cylon she's aiming for, but his buddy is a much better shot than she. All she knows is that her hand is suddenly covered in blood, and hey! That hurts, you know! She cries out in pain and catches sight of Stavrian making his way over to her. In shock, she starts to babble, "Ya can't come o'er 'ere! Yer bleedin'! Can't fix me up when yer hurt worse!" She's way more concerned with his wound right now than she is her own.

Going full-auto on the machines… doesn't do a godsdamned thing. All it does is make her rifle click empty. When it does, Cilusia drops back under cover and pulls the clip out of the rifle. With a hand, she signs back to whoever's got the new clips, the ones with the AP rounds. Time to reload, and maybe actually do some damage!

That's Greje's cue, the hand signal from the woman currently sans ammunition and she keeps as focused as possible, eyes kept on the woman instead of the Cylons until she can hand off the new clip.

One down. Three to go. And maybe more. Who knows what's back there? The horrible thing is, these three centurions are death incarnate. Even as the other one goes down, more and more Colonial forces go by the wayside. With his rifle up, Brenner fires off a couple rounds ineffectively in the air as he proves once and for all that he pays attention. What Karthasi said earlier. "K'haireto hemeteros Basileus Soter ta Pater te!" It's echoed. Word-for-word. "K'haireto hemeteros Basileus Soter ta Pater te! In the name of My God, the all-seeing, all-loving God of Justice. Turn back. You may kill /me/ but you're not going to get to my people. MY BLOOD FOR THEIRS." He starts fingering something under his collar, stiff and grimacing through the wounds.

And something happens. The Cylons, the red blinking eyes, swivelling heads, they stop in their tracks and for the moment, stare at Brenner and it might be the trick of the lights, or one's imagination, but those red-flashing heads seem to bow a moment. Which gives him a chance to keep talking. Their heads hold there in acknowledgement. He slowly stands, holding the rifle aloft. Then their heads rise — they turn to open fire on the poor marine efficiently and flawlessly, gunning him down straight in the head and he crumples in a bloody heap. Dead. Instantly.

Cappella watches the Cylons gun down the Corporal and a deep guttural growl comes from his throat, he steps out of cover the newly reloaded pistol comes up and just starts firing, as he marches toward the Cylons. "MY BLOOD FOR THIERS!" he screams, "So Say WE ALL!"

That is Not Good. Even so, Trask is level-headed enough to not go charging into the fray. If anything, he employs Taurian pragmatism and takes this window of opportunity to line up his shot. After all, the Cylons are suitably distracted.

Though she can see, Cilusia isn't really in a position to act, what with an empty rifle. Rather, he eyes just go wide and her jaw goes a little slack, and she mumbles something in Scorpian, something shockingly religious from her dirty mouth.

Karthasi crouches there by Cilusia, one brow rising in quick succession after the other as the man goes hurling himself after the Cylons in the ultimate act of xenia. Her forearms rest on her knees and she watches, awestruck.

Stavrian can barely see, staring a bit at what's going on. Brenner's bizarre declaration has him nearly frozen, lips moving with no sound. Then his mind snatches him back to what he was doing — bandaging Temperance — which he finishes in a rush and moves back.

The Cylons here, having done their bloody work on poor Brenner, stand there, heads bowed again as they stare at the man's corpse, even as the other Colonials gun them down. Whatever he said, whatever he did - they listened. His blood paid for the staying of their hands, here and now.

Temperance stares at her hand, stares at Stavrian, stares at Brenner as he dies, watches Cappella rush into everything, and all she does is stare, and watch, and maybe cry a little - not that she realizes it. "Is m'hand - " she starts to ask, but Stav's already moved away. So she just stands motionless, and watches it all.

Cappella keeps charging keeps firing the first few bullets might bounce of the head armor, but as he get closer, eventually one blowed right through the open eye hole of one of the Cylons, bringing him down.

With their guns strangely silent, Cilusia pops out from behind cover and sets sight on the Centurions, attacking one with a burst… all of which goes wild. She correct aim shortly after, and, with them standing there quietly, she approached, pumping AP rounds into their glowing eyes and armored chests. She howls out as she does. Tears begin to well up, even, and roll down her cheeks. Why, she can't really say. She just does.

The fireteam continues firing, taken advantage of this strange Gods(God)-given lull, as they work with the others.

That the Centurions just stand there even though they're getting shot to scrap does not sit well with Trask. Even when others start to attack banzai-style, he's still anticipating more toasters. Despite this, he maintains his cover and continues unleashing a steady stream of AP rounds, which finally permit him to make some serious dents in all that metal.

Cappella says, "Marines, secure down to the Repair bay; let's make sure no more are coming. PO, find connection to CIC and find out if we can expect more visitors down here."

When the rifle clicks empty, Cilusia doesn't stop. She just keeps going at the Cylons, tossing the rifle aside. At this point, she's more of a target than the toasters, getting all up in their grill like that. For a while she'd wanted to go hand-to-hand with a toaster, and now? She just starts pounding on the chest of one, all punched through with bullet holes… not quite enough woman there to make it fall over.

Stavrian is barely conscious, slumped against the side of the crate he was original using for cover. He saw that last bizarre exchange and little else.

"Yo! The medic needs a medic!" That would be Trask, who stops shooting once he's sure the Cylons are permanently offline. Holstering his pistol, he snags the medkit that he'd brought from the Raptor and starts dashing Stavrian's way. "As much as I'm sure the El-tee would love my hands all over him, I'll let someone more qualified molest the man."

Slowly, inch by inch, the priest begins to rise from her crouch behind the firing station, box of ammo in her arms, looking— bewildered? Amazed? All of these things. They just— stopped? Machines with an observation of the sanctity of reciprocity? Buh??

By the time Trask gets there, he looks at Stavrian's state and declares, "Dude, I'm so not even trying." He'd likely make it worse. "Stay put. I'll see if I can find someone who knows how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again."

Something pulls Greje from her momentary lapse from reality, and that something might have been Trask, because he's the one she turns to. "Does anyone know what's become of sickbay? Should we try to get everyone down there? Is it safe?"

Cappella's voice grows a little louder, "Petty Officer, they are down, we need to get on the line to CiC we need to know if there are more of them on the way."

Stavrian can hear Trask just enough to attempt to nod. Doesn't work too well. Blood pools under him, the spread of dark red fanning out and thickly dampening his uniform legs and middle. "Blood for theirs…" He tries to say it anyway, this whole thing just not computing. But it comes out in under a whisper.

The ECO is also bleeding. It's merely in one place and a lot less blood. "No frakkin' clue," Trask tells Karthasi, "Let's find out." Onward, to the intercom, as well as to find someone to tend to the downed corpsman RIGHT NOW. This latter part is done by using the 'outdoor voice' indoors. "ATTENTION: IF YOU KNOW HOW TO PATCH UP A SERIOUS GUT WOUND, GET TO IT. LIEUTENANT STAVRIAN IS DOWN. WE LIKE HIM, SO WE WANT HIM OKAY. OKAY?" All the while, on his way to get on the horn.

Who knows what damage the Cylons have done to the ship? If they were walking around inside the skin of the ship, there's nothing to say that they haven't cut a bunch of comm lines. Better to send a runner in this scenario, right, just to confirm? Being the least wounded and the least important in this scenario, Cilusia sets out for CIC, rifle in hand.

Cappella stops to kneel next to Brenner. He crosses himself and says a small prayer before reaching into the dead marine's shirt to lift the medallion up and kiss it.

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