| Clankers — Hammer and Anvil |
| Summary: | The Cylons close their murderous trap. |
| Date: | 11 Apr 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Blackout, The Heart of it All, and more to come. |
| Players: |
      |
| Dual Stairway — Midships — Battlestar Cerberus |
|---|
| This stairway runs up and down the center of the ship. Deck 7 leads to the main forward areas of the ship within the 'Alligator Head'. This is where the water tanks are stored and the Combat Information Center is located. Deck 9 leads to the stern area of the ship. The main area of the stern houses the sublight engines and FTL drives. |
Coming or going? The stairwell is usually a flurry of motion - it's a means to an end, for people moving about the ship. Not for Pallas. For him, it looks like the stairway is the stop. There he stands, right in everyone's way, outside of Deck 9 hatch, leaning against the wall and smoking. Just watching the comers and the goers without a word.
There's a hard expression on Lasher's face as he strides through the hallway. What few passersby in the halls don't exactly shrink at his approach — it's not like pissed-off-looking Lieutenants are hard to find on this bucket — but no one goes out of their way to greet him, either. He slows, though, as he approaches the stairway.
"Frakkers…" A familiar voice echoes as does the raport of footfall as Allie begins her hurried descent of the stairs, her trip starting at Deck 3's hatch. "So. Late!" Wherever she's supposed to be…well, she isn't there, causing her to have to run just about. She does slow when she notices Lasher, however, her appointment forgotten as she looks at his expression, Pallas not yet noticed. "Hey, Lasher. What are you up to?"
For those who stop and glance at the old man - and are keeping track, anyway - they'd notice that Pallas is no longer wearing the sling on his left arm as he's had for over a month. And there's some new bruising on his jaw, not to mention the double split lip that looks like it's only just started to scab over. Someone's been having fun. His eyes scan the stairwell methodically and settle on… Lasher and Lucky. Staying where he is, not particularly trying to attract their attention, he watches for now.
Sorry, Spiral, too late. Lasher pauses next to the wall across from the stairwell, a hawkish glance directed at the older man. His attention wavers, however, as Allie calls out to him. His eyes slide over to the woman, head inclining in a terse greeting. "Lucky." Eyes go back to Pallas. "Looking for someone." Ah, but found someone he has, no?
Alessandra purses her lips and then sighs, now catching sight of the other man. "Oh. Uh, I see. I guess we can talk later." She hesitates before she adds softly, "And you still frakking owe me a Pyramid match so you can just stop avoiding me and frakking make good on it." There is a smile now. All done, she waves to Pallas before starting to return to her departure but then pauses as she gets a better look at Spiral's face. "You look like shit. Try to bed the wrong person?"
Spotted! Pallas returns Lasher's momentary gaze with a blank one of his own. No recognition, no flicker of the eye, just a dead stare behind a thin screen of smoke. "I always look like shit," is his reply to Alessandra, his head tilting just a bit as his eyes move to her instead. "And since when do I have to 'try'?"
Lasher looks as if he's about to speak, but with a glance at the crowded surroundings, he refrains. Instead, he merely withdraws a smoke of his own. "See, Lucky, our Spiral here is a pro. One liners. Bedding the ladies. Baiting ensigns." A slight scowl comes over his face as the touch of a lighter sets the tip of his cigarette aflame.
Alessandra's woefully out of the loop thanks to how removed she's kept herself from the daily going-ons of the squadron so when Lasher makes with the commentary she finds herself staring, her expression going a bit blank. "Baiting ensigns? Wait? What is that all about?" Glancing from Spiral to Lasher and then up, she chews on her lower lip before shaking her head, giving up on trying to figure that all out on her own. "Care to explain," she asks, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. This is going to be good.
"Now, now," Pallas says with the slightest of smirks touching the corner of his lips. He holds up a hand as though to calm Lasher down. "Don't be getting jealous, Lasher. I'm an equal opportunity baiter - I don't discriminate by rank." Still, there's a slight look of surprise at the 'baiting ensigns' part. Word spreads pretty damn fast on a Battlestar. Alessandra is given the same flat look he gave to Laskaris for a moment before he answers, "Ensign Apostolos," he explains, heavy sarcasm on that name, "took some exception to my words and decided to club me with her cast on the hangar deck."
Lasher grunts. "You think I'm jealous, Ellinon, maybe you need your head examined. Again." His head tilts to one side as he takes a drag. "Don't think we won't be discussing it later. My office. I'll let you know when." He doesn't interrupt as the older lieutenant lays out the story for Alessandra, though he doesn't look happy at all.
Daphne arrives from the Deck 4.
Daphne has arrived.
Alessandra isn't exactly happy herself although the why behind her not being so is impossible to tell just by her reaction alone. "Well, I'm sadly not surprised," she intones. "Bad behavior seems to be a common theme." Her arms are tucked about her body as she shakes her head, disappointed; no, she's not in a position of authority so she really doesn't have a right to be so but she is regardless.
"The matter's closed, Lasher," Pallas says to the man dismissively. "So saith the CAG." He makes a regal sort of gesture to accompany those words. The spent cigarette is flicked down the stairs to be trampled by the passersby; he pulls out another and puts it between his lips. They're still tender from the look of his little wince. He sure is chain-smoking through whatever supplies he has with dedication. "I don't give a frak about 'bad behavior'," he says, striking two matches to light his smoke. "But she did it out in the open, in front of the grunts."
Daphne does her model officer (as in made of plastic and placed in a store window) schtick as she happens by. This basically consists of saluting anything shinier than she is. Her walk is with shoulders back and straight, as though she expects she's got an invisible drill instructor watching her, though she slows somewhat as she passes the arguing officers, perking an ear and trying to pretend she's not.
Lasher shakes his head at Allie's comment. His glower deepens even further at Pallas' reply, and he straightens, taking a few steps towards the older man. "But it's not closed with me, you cancerous frakwit," he hisses. "If I say we're going to discuss something, that very frakkin' well means it'll be discussed." Lasher's cigarette gets a violent flick, which very nearly knocks the cherry loose. "She might be the CAG, but you're in my squadron now, boyo."
Alessandra doesn't see Daphne yet as she's got her gaze firmly locked between Lasher and Spiral, the discussion pretty well keeping her attention there instead of allowing for it to wander. It is the reaction she gets from Laskaris that does get noticed, it rewarded with a blink and a 'what did I do now' kind of reaction from her. That's all that anyone gets as this is a matter left for the Squadron Leader to deal with although she's most definitely listening, too curious to make her exit now.
The stairwell's always a busy place, and the folks standing right smack dab in the middle of it have started to get ugly looks from a couple of passing crewmen who need to get places in a hurry. Nobody says anything, of course — this doesn't look like a powwow worth interrupting — but Laskaris does get noticeably bumped by a disapproving orange-clad Chief. "Sorry, sir," she sniffs. "I'll just get out of your way."
Pallas's eyes narrow as he looks at Lasher, not backing down. "I'm not your 'boyo', you backbirth frakweasel," he snaps, standing up to the man. They're definitely getting looks from everyone in the stairwell now. "I've been in this frakked-up service for twenty-two years, and you think you can stand up to me and call me 'boyo' like I'm your buttfrakkin' buddy from Aerilon because you're the Acting Squadron Leader?" A sneer is barely held back as he turns away - which makes him miss Lasher being bumped into. "You'd best frakkin' think again, boyo."
Daphne slows her walk to rubberneck. When Pallas gets directly into Laskaris' face, that's when she drops any pretense towards passing through. She stops in place and watches with widened eyes. She doesn't dare say a word, as that might endanger her and make her fall through the clouds.
<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!"
The passing chief's little snit is ignored by Laskaris. "Don't turn your back on me," he snarls. Unlike Pallas, Lasher makes no effort to hide a sneer. Perks of being a squadron leader and all. "Who the frak do you think you are? You think twenty two bloody years as a malcontented retread makes you somebody? Like hell. I may not be much, but I do notice the squadron's in my hands and not the likes of yours." He gives an exaggerated snort of derision. "Don't blame me because you wasted twenty years of your frakkin' life being a washed-up hack."
Alessandra steps forward to try and defuse the situation but only gets as far as to touch Laskaris' shoulder before the general announcement arrives and the ship is put in Condition One. "Frakmewhatthehell…" she blurts out, somehow managing to make that all one word instead of five seperate ones like it should be. "Anton?" Biting her lower lip, she waits for Pallas and him to stop fighting and do something, willing to deferr to the more senior LTs for orders. She does look around, this being when she notices Daphne who gets waved over.
The chief heads down the stairwell with a contemptuous grunt, adding an elbow-jab for good measure — and then she flies backwards, her forehead perforated by a bullet, right as Condition One is set throughout the ship. Blood streams down her lifeless brown skin as she crumples to the ground — and then the clatter of machine guns can be heard throughout the hall. Looks like the Repair Bay isn't the only place to which the Cylons have got.
Then?
Pandemonium.
Like something out of a bad sitcom, the alarm goes off just as the sudden flash of anger between the two LTs reaches its zenith. Laskaris looks up towards the ceiling in confusion… and he snaps into action, almost by reflex, at the sound of a gunshot. His head twitches towards the sound, just in time to see that suited chief tumble to the ground. The sound of machine guns blare throughout the hall, loud but distorted, so that Lasher can't really tell where exactly it's coming from. The blond lieutenant, however, does have a solution as he quickly looks to all the other pilots. "Hangar deck! Now!" he barks.
<Intercom> Oberlin says, "All hands, hostile contacts reported aboardship. Adhere to Boarding Protocol Constellation Deacon-Niner."
"Here's what you don't get, Lasher," Pallas says, completely ignoring the intercom. He doesn't turn around but glances back over his shoulder. And that's what stops him - because you can ignore the intercom, but you can't really ignore a person getting shot in the head, or the sounds of machine gun fire that accompany it. He starts to run up the stairs when he hears Lasher's order. Turn. Glare. But he obeys orders. At least for now.
Daphne offers Alessandra a 'are you nuts!?' look in return for the wave over. She's clearly not eager to get involved in this thing. When the alarm goes off, she takes a step forward and stops, opening her fingers for just a moment. When there's gunfire and dead people? It's a miracle that her lower lip doesn't get insta-torn open by her teeth right there. Her eyes go wide and she nods to the other pilots, "Which way??" It's not that she's lost. But her eyes do peer at the dead person.
<FS3> Daphne rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Pallas rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Laskaris rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Alessandra rolls Alertness: Success.
CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
Three Centurions emerge from the stairwell near Deck 10 right beneath the place landing where the pilots have decided to stage their little hatefest, their metal shells deformed where they've been exposed to blasting heat of inferno scale, their hand-guns — literally! they've got guns for hands! — blazing as they rake the soldiers trapped in the stairwell with overlapping fields of fire. Somebody's programmed them well.
And from the wall near Deck 6 comes a loud, pulsing thud that sounds like the erratic pumping of some pneumatic drill — just loud enough to be audible to those twenty-odd men and women trying to make their way up for guns, guns, any guns…
"Just follow, dammit!" Lasher shouts down to Daphne, as he's already scurrying up the stairs, hopefully with the rest of the pilots following on his heels. His pace doesn't slow — at least, until they start coming up to deck 6, at which point the loud slamming noise becomes audible. "The frak…" he mutters to himself as his eyes instinctively look for an arms locker — and, presumably, not finding one, as this is a stairwell.
The order to stay put has Alessandra rolling her eyes, Oberlin pretty much having signed their death warrents in her opinion, that feeling pretty much made fact when the whirring, hateful machines begin to make their presence known. "Frak you," Allie hisses between clenched teeth. "Up! Go up!" Grabbing for Pallas' and Lasher's arms with one hand and making to grab Daphne by her wrist with the other, intending on dragging -all three- of them behind her if she has to. "Las, Where's the nearest locker," she calls out to their SL from over her shoulder, her eyes wide, face as white as a virgin's vestments.
<Intercom> Polaris says, "Now hear this! Intruders have breached Sickbay, say again, intruders have breached Sickbay and are proceeding up the stairwell to — gurgle — CLANK. CLANK. CLANK. — static"
Pallas jerks his wrist away from Alessandra's grip and stays where he is. Everything is chaos. Everything is noise. After a moment's hesitation, he's running up after the others, following Lasher. "They're everywhere," he says, listening to the com for once. "They're all over the ship. We have to get off of it - not fight on it."
Daphne inhales long and deep, presses her teeth over the nigh-ubiquitous scab on her lower lip, and then opts not to open the cask. Clearly that wine gets to age a bit longer. She hustles with the others, "Up. Sure. Can do up." The sound on the intercom makes her face pale a little bit, but she's not about to stop moving. "Not good."
Right now, Laskaris looks more angry than anything else. When Pallas speaks, he directs a skeptical glance back at the man as if to say, 'Really?' Nothing is said, though. More pressing concerns, etc. Instead, blue eyes flash over to Alessandra. Lasher has to think for a moment, but then he answers the question. "Deck 7. Little outside CIC. Closest one I can think of," he replies quietly. The sound of gunfire has subsided, but he can still hear the occasional rapid-fire rattle of shots in between the mysterious thrumming noises.
The Cylons continue their implacable advance as they stride up the stairs, slamming helpless soldiers into bulkheads before finishing them off with a machine-gun blast to the face. There are three of them in all — and all three of them score kills as they move from landing to landing, their melted armor splattering with blood from the spray.
Lasher's progress up the stairwell, in the meantime, is impeded, as is the progress of everybody else, as soldiers from Deck Six start pouring back into the ship's main thoroughfare. "Two more coming!" is the word that gets passed down, accompanied by the stench of blood and sweat. "Back down! Down, down!"
The dead Chief is left behind by Lucky, the corpse something that'll have to be claimed later by those who are usually tasked by such things. "Okay…" she manages to get out while looking at Spiral, her head slowly pivoting side to side as she shakes it. "Get it together, Pallas. We've got to get to the guns." Daphne's compliance would have gotten a smile but then the Marines come to the rescue and give them directions, leaving her to flounder mentally for a moment. "Down…frak me!" Turning, she starts the rush down the stairs, hissing and snarling the entire way.
"What a frakking clown show this is," Pallas mutters under his breath. Up the stairs, down the stairs. On the bus, off the bus. He's already broken a sweat in the short amount of time they've been running about. "No choice left," he says, ducking through into Deck 7. Enough of the frakking stairs already. He'll take his chances in the corridors instead.
"Bloody frakkin' metal bastards, I swear I'll…" As the pilots going up are met by marines fleeing down, Lasher erupts in a muttered cavalcade of rather impressive curses. "Frak. Right, then," he manages a moment later as he turns back the way he'd come. "Deck 7!" he calls out to the assembled Colonial personnel. "We'll rearm at the arms locker, go from there."
<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 —"
Daphne still isn't popping the cork, but she's clearly thinking about it. Her tongue keeps circling the scab on her lower lip like sharks circling some tasty humans… like Cylons, come to think of it. She stops where she is when the way up becomes cluttered, and about faces once she's told to go the other way. She's clearly in no hurry to be first, but also in no hurry to be last. "A, B, C, D, E, F, G. H, I, J, K, L-M-N-O-P…" She's muttering/humming the alphabet song under her breath, which does nothing to prevent her from sounding like she's losing her mind and/or converting into a psychotic.
The panic is only momentary as Laskaris bellows loudly in the stairwell, and minds conditioned to obey immediately follow the loudest voice screaming orders. Though the men and women dashing downwards from deck six don't hear him, the men and women running up from deck ten assuredly do — those who haven't been injured, that is, as Centurions line up careful shots at the turkeys running up the shaft above them. Four more collapse, their legs perforated by too many bullets to count. They're pushed out of the way by apologetic crew, faces locked in a rictus of concentration, thronging upwards at the Viper pilot's command. Progress is slow — like a traffic jam at rush hour in Caprica City during the days before the fall.
"Come ON, godsdamnit! MOVE YOUR FRAKKING ARSES!" Lasher shouts urgently at the crowded gaggle of crewmen on the stairwell as the sound of gunfire gets louder once again. "Move or you're dead!" How's that for motivation, hm? Arriving at the deck 7 landing, he stops outside the entry to the corridor, flattening himself against the wall as he roughly guides people through. Anyone who's not moving fast enough is 'assisted' via a shove.
Alessandra's keeping up as much as she's able to but between the crowd and wanting to make sure Daphne's alright it's slow going which just might get Pallas and Las pissed off at her. It takes longer than what she's comfortable with but she eventually manages to get down and against the bulkhead, Lucky breathless and her brow damp with sweat. "Helluva first date," she whispers to herself while watching Lasher's efforts to herd the mass of people through the hatch, waiting until everyone who needs to be elsewhere gets out before trying to follow herself.
<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"
Pallas isn't frakking around. If people are too slow to save their own sorry asses, it's their problem to take up with the Gods. The old man is moving slowly through the crowd, sure, but he's moving hard. Pushes, shoves, and elbows get thrown every which way as he tries to clear a path. Which has the added bonus of making a slight opening for those following close enough behind him, too. "Don't try and be a frakkin' hero, Lasher!" he shouts over the commotion. "A dead Squadron Leader is no good - get your ugly ass in here!"
"Q, R, S. T, U, V. W X. Y and Z." Daphne takes Pallas unspoken advice and begins to shove. It's only fair, as it's not as though the tide she's moving through isn't shoving back. She starts to make real headway and takes it as encouragement to just drive herself a little harder. "Now I know my A B Cs. Next time won't you sing with me."
The corridor clears up significantly once the Viper pilots burst out into blessedly open air, having shoved their way through with abandon — and just in time, too, as still more unarmed soldiers go down to the Centurion onslaught. The mad trio has made it to the landing of deck 8, now, and there's no sign of any Marine resistance as they slog their way through the stairs. The people down there are packed in so tightly that one bullet can wound a good two or three people — and the Centurions are certainly not inclined to be sporting and fire just one bullet apiece.
And there, straight ahead in the corridor — miracle of miracles! — is the arms locker, oddly devoid of Marine guard. Its hatch is locked and sealed. Best hope somebody remembers the password.
<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.""
As much as he'd like to dispute Pallas' assessment, Laskaris really can't. A long look at the older man, and then Lasher ducks through himself, though he can't resist muttering a "what, no 'acting' this time?" to Pallas as he passes. He quickly runs/shoves his way to the front of their little procession as it arrives at the arms locker. Wiping beads of sweat from his brow, and wishing he was in anything but his blues, he rapidly punches a sequence of numbers into the keypad.
Alessandra stares at the singer, it being because of what Daphne is singing rather than the fact that she is. "Shhh…" she implores the Ensign while putting a finger to her lips, trying to tell Click to be silent without making too much noise herself. "Hurry…" she implores again, this time it being Lasher she begs to hurry as he works on getting that lock open. Time's a precious commodity and it's one they're rapidly running out of, Allie now watching Spiral as she tries to calm down.
"Figured… being succinct… was more important… than impinging your pride," Pallas says, trying to catch his breath. "This time," he adds with a weak smile. With his back against the wall, he slides down a little bit into a semi-sitting position. Waiting for the guns. "For all we know, you're the acting CAG right now."
This is one of those Guns! Lots of Guns! moments — or would be, that is, if the Viper pilots had ever bothered to learn how the folks in Personnel organized their stuff. Stacks upon stacks of boxes filled with munitions of all sorts rise up from the shelves and cages inside, none of them labeled in any sort of language that remotely resembles Colonial Standard: AR200X over there, PR1000X over there, XP10X over there — but hey. At least the rifles are out on full display, devoid of ammo though they might be.
And still the CLANKing comes, joined now by what sounds like —
"Gods protect us!" comes the cry from the stairwell. "Two more from Deck Six, advancing this way!"
Daphne narrows her eyes at the sound of the intercom. "If they're not already dead, they should get shot for treason. I don't need the morale boost, assholes." She presses her back against the wall ajoining to the weapon locker. "Okay. So… once we're armed, where are we going, sir? Are we going up to CIC? Sounds like they need help."
Lasher snorts, even as his attention is locked on the keypad. "Don't remind me," he deadpans to Pallas. "Hope Hahn lives to a ripe old age, myself." Then, the door swings open, and the Viper pilots are treated to guns with a heavy side helping of personnel-ese. "Frak," he hisses, though it doesn't stop him from snatching up a rifle and looking for any ammunition that looks like it'll fit. He doesn't answer Daphne's question right away, though, instead looking to the other random crew people along the way. "We were already on the bleedin' stairs when the attack hit," he announces, searching their collars to find the senior among them. "Any of you lot have a better idea of their deployments than what we heard on the 'com?"
Alessandra thrusts her hand forward. "Give me one of those," she grunts out, not about to just stand idly by while they're under attack. Forget the fact that she's not really able to shoot a rifle real well, she's going to try and if she's going to die it'll be while doing so. Already impatient, she gives up on waiting for Lasher and approaches the locker, getting herself armed while listening for answers as to just they should expect numbers-wise.
Pallas only grunts in response to Lasher's comment about Cidra, but who knows if that's agreement or derision? Or something else altogether? Instead of grabbing for a rifle first, he takes two different boxes of ammo and tries to figure out which one it is they want. Not these two, apparently. Next two. "This one, maybe," he says, holding out the box to Lasher. "One of these useless frakkers has to know for sure which it is…" he snarls, eyeing the passersby.
Daphne arms herself in a right hurry. She checks the firearm over, loads it, takes the safety off, and grabs another pack of ammo. As far as drills go, she's a little rusty, but one can probably still see the instructor yelling in her ear from way back when. She's otherwise dead silent.
Cardboard is ripped, torn, and shredded by the pilots' hands to reveal gloriously shiny brass bullets they lock into their weapons with varying degrees of awkwardness. Into the corridor they go, only to find that their last line of defense is currently in the process of being shredded not by three but five Centurions, their eyeslits glinting as they lay down suppressing fire with remarkable precision. Two have turned to fire down the stairwell; the other three face forwards, advancing along with their partners in a pentagon of death.
And Laskaris' answer? "Who knows, who cares? Get the frak out there and start shooting, yeah? Because they're frakkin' deployed HERE, you godsdamned worthless TWAT — "
Uh-huh. LT from engineering is just a little bit stressed as he and his two uninjured friends dash pash Laskaris to arm themselves.
"It's called strategy, frakwit," Lasher mutters to the engineer as he's rooting through the boxes of ammo, which is probably how he missed Allie's request for a rifle. His brow screwed up in annoyance, he finally grabs a few clips from one of the XP10X boxes, distributing them amongst the group as quickly as he can. One clip is slammed into the rifle, another two are hastily stuffed into his pocket as he ducks back out the hatch, weapon at the ready. The rifle is immediately leveled, and a horrifically twisted sneer comes over Lasher's face as he takes aim.
Daphne presses her back against a wall, rifle in hand. She crouches and -finally- pulls the scab open on her lip, though it's only enough of a tear to cause a tiny drop of blood to leak from her ever-present wound. Her teeth close together and her eyes peer straight at the strobey lights of the centurions. "Oh gods. Oh gods." Mutters she in a lower voice, "Frak."
Locked and loaded… or reasonably certain of it, anyway. Pallas gives his rifle a once-over, trying to remember what all the levers and buttons are for. Somewhere along the way, he decides not to care - as long as the bolt comes back and the trigger clicks, he's happy. Coming up beside Lasher, he raises his rifle. Ready… aim…
And that, sirs, is why pilots fly planes and Marines with body armor and training in firearms shoot at enemies. Blood flies everywhere as the doughty quartet pushes back against the steadily-advancing quintet, and though their bullets do in fact make an impact, the Cylons' bullets make more. Dull lead lashes into Alessandra's chest and Laskaris' abdomen, burning as hot as whatever melted the Centurions' deformed armor; brass scatters across the floor as the Cylons push forward, leaving behind only carnage on the stairwell behind. It's clear that they view these four brave soldiers as gnats, nothing more, as with pounding feet they begin their mad dash to CIC. Only their rear guard keeps firing, now, as the pentagon swivels and moves down the corridor…
The three engineers, in the meantime, are arming themselves as quickly as they can, locking and loading while doing their best to avoid looking at the blood.
The bullet that grazes his hand ever so slightly doesn't draw a reaction from Laskaris, but the shot that knifes into his side a half second later draws a pained wheeze of surprise. There's several crates and boxes along the sides of the corridor between the humans and the Cylons; the wounded Lasher quickly scurries behind one, bellowing "Take cover, frakitall!" to the others as he fires off another burst.
Alessandra would take cover but winds up in a heap on the deck while red mist colors the air about her where she had stood. Okay. That hurts. "Gods…" Allie manages to cough out while she tries to move to the stairs, wanting to take cover there where she'll hopefully be unseen.
If there are truly Gods, then they must have a sick sense of humor. Pallas is untouched by the Cylons' weapons as yet - and even managed to hit one. Not one to tempt fate, he gets down behind a crate and continues firing at the moving targets. "They're heading toward the CIC!" he shouts. Thanks, Lieutenant Obvious!
Daphne takes aim at one of the hulking metallic marines and squeezes the trigger, heedless of the bullets whizzing by, though her face is stricken white with something like the bastard child of shock and adrenaline. Her rust with an actual rifle, versus the training pistols she's been using, manifests in the fact that she's not quite ready to handle the recoil. Bullets tear into the thing's abdomen, and then her gun walks upwards, doing nasty damage into its throat and walking into the head, which is merely dented. When the return fire comes, she presses herself behind the corner of an intersection for cover, waits for what she thinks is the return fire, and then leans out from cover to fire again. Eyes peer at Alessandra in particular, but dart back to the robots ahead.
The southmost vertices of the Cylon pentagon stop in their tracks as they swivel, and though they're trying more to discourage pursuit than to actually hit anything, today just isn't the Viper lieutenant's lucky day. Laskaris gets himself pinged once again before he ducks into cover — which, incidentally, doesn't do terribly much for his aim (or anybody else's, for that matter). Then the Centurions vanish out of sight, moving with the rest of the pentagon as they clank down the corridor.
And Alessandra? She finds herself alone in a stairwell veritably dripping with blood — blood on the bulkheads, blood on the deck, blood on the bodies splayed out like beached whales on the steep steel steps — but what she'll feel most is a sense of sickening warmth in a space as confined as this. Hope she isn't claustrophobic.
Alessandra's not claustrophobic which is a very good thing but even then this makes for a very horrible situation for her. Bleeding from her chest, the wound is beyond serious; the bullet wounds are weeping the red stuff profusely and everytime she coughs a fine red mist leaves her mouth, thata sign of the internal damage the projectile left in its wake. Hopefully someone will think to come back for her before she bleeds out.
Indeed someone does — but not before Alessandra has spent what feels like an hour trying to keep herself conscious as she hugs herself to the wall and ignores that little voice in her head that whispers words of seductive power: Better to rest, Duckie, and close your eyes; better to sleep, Duckie, so you don't have to see —
She listens, eventually. She has to — and so it's a limp and pale pilot who gets pulled out of the maze of corpses not two minutes after she first set herself down in this garden of blood. And when new voices come she can't listen: "Got a pulse but it's weak — "
"Take her — one, two!"
"Anybody else?"
Just another day in the life.