| Clankers — The Heart of It All |
| Summary: | CIC finds itself at the eye of the storm. |
| Date: | 11 Apr 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Blackout, Hammer and Anvil, more to come. |
| Players: |
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| Combat Information Center — Deck 7 — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| The central nexus of the ship, the fighting capability all stems from here. With entrances on both sides, an entire section of the wall will twist its armored glass and doorframes out of an air locked position and allow access. At the rear of the room is a standard hatch that allows access as well. Computer terminals sit in a semi-circle around the main plotting table in the center of the room. DRADIS and other essential readouts are displayed on screens that hang from the ceiling. Forward and aft are a set of glass plots that hang vertically from the ceiling and provide the crew with the ability to coordinate air traffic operations in the easiest way possible. |
Leaning against a tactical station, the top flap of Oberlin's uniform tunic hangs open very slightly. The things you can get away with when the Admiral and the XO are away. To be honest, it looks like he's been here for some time, and stares down at a report that he's actively copying data onto from said station — with a pencil. Hi tech, baby.
"Um. This is the Combat Information Center. An intelligence officer once saved me from an atomic wedgie, so they're pretty good people and they Know Things. You should listen," Sagenod. Lunair the teacher. She's brought Kai with her, to show her a few things around. She has her usual headgear and all that, hiding her slightly shaven hairdo. Her voice is a bit raspy from inhaling acid the other day but she seems to be in good spirits otherwise.
On drawing near, she notices Oberlin and pauses. "Oh. There's an officer now." Nod. She pauses, tilting her head, seeing if she should interrupt. Lunair offers cautiously, "Sir?"
The sagenod is returned, Kai paying rapt attention to Lunair's words. Still, the woman has a question that cannot be denied. "What is an atomic wedgie? A type of bomb?" Very confusing, "I thought I knew all the bomb types out there. Can you describe it for me?" Words are cut off as Oberlin is pointed out, in view, and addressed by her superior. Yep, she's learning.
"Well, they pulled my underwear and hung me up on a treebranch by it," Embarrassment. Owch. Lunair tilts her head, "So no. Just really painful." Coughcough. She smiles though and looks to Oberlin. A polite smile. Ehehe. If it's TOO SOON, Lunair shows no signs. She hides a smile by pretending to cough. "Probably." If Cylons wore underwear. "How are you today sir? I'm showing Private Zaranj here some of the important places in the ship." Nod.
The joke goes right over Kai's head. Lil' Miss Literal here likely takes his words for gospel truth, but the connection to Lunair's own admission is missed. Instead, by being corrected more questions hesitantly come forth, evident by her mouth opening… well, and no sound surfacing. Right. Appropriate times and places for such things, and certainly not in front of .. this man, whoever he is. At introduction, Kai stands at attention. Perfect. Attention. She's been practicing. See?
"Aw, I'm touched, Lieutenant." Oberlin finally snaps his head out of his paperwork-reverie and manages a servicable smile but a less-than-completely-reverent grin. "Private." He adds. Along with a salute. "Really. It may not look like much but it's a real circus. Especially on off-shift when the Admiral's napping. Which he apparently is, now that he met his new girl." He clears his throat. "Wait, it was a boy, wasn't it?"
Poor Lunair, getting wedgied in Academy. She smiles back. "The kitty? Nibbles?" Headtilt. She coughs to clear her through. An amused look. She tries not to daw at the mental image of kitten and Admiral. "Yeah, it was a boy. And ah, this is-" She pauses, to let the Oberlin introduce himself. "Even though it looks sort of like he said, a lot of important things happen. Like sometimes they figure out what really happened, what to make of it and all that jazz." In other words, the Marines lean a lot on CIC lest they shoot the wrong thing or something. "Stuff. And … things." Yeah. She looks at a loss for a moment, before pulling a small memo pad COVERED in postits. She was going somewhere with this. "Um."
Salute is returned, performed yet again perfectly with a quiet - surprise! - little "sir", as if to keep from interrupting the conversation. She is here to watch and observe, is Kai. And? Mention of the Admiral's preferences earns nary a movement, not even a facial tick. Right back at attention, should Oberlin actually introduce himself, she will again punctuate the moment with the simple reply of 'Sir'. Some might be impressed, or at least those who have met her before.
"I do that in another room, where the noise isn't. Unfortunately the Fleet isn't exactly swimming in people who can perform double-duty, and, thanks to the /wonder/ of budget cuts I got shoved in a Tactical role as well. It's good. I missed space duty, y'know?" Oberlin muses a bit as he eyes both the marines, explaining a little. "Little did I know, that was the best career move I could have made."
Nod. Lunair tilts her head. "I see. That's a new one to me," She admits. She's sadly, still in the ranks of officers what are doubling as coffee monkeys. As she flips to the appropriate postit, she ohs softly! "This is Lieutenant Oberlin." Beam. She FOUND IT. At least fate is kind enough to humble Lunair enough to compensate for her poor memory. She nods at him. "You started planetside too?" She ponders. She does seem glad the fellow made it with them at least. That's right! "Tactical works here. They figure out the best way to come at things. More dudes with bigger guns is always nice, but it rarely works that way-" So these folks step in with logistics and plans. "And if you've any questions, please don't hesitate to ask." A beam at Kai.
Oh, the storm that Lunair just unleashed. With permission granted, Kai's face alights; all that was held down - the raging curiosity and interest in everything, that is - is released in a flurry of words. "Why was it the best career move that you could have made? What qualities are required in order to be of the CiC? There is a kitty? Alive? When did you join, and you seem interested in your position, so what do you like most about it? Why would the budget cuts put you into Tactical? Do you work with Lance Corporal Cadmus Maragos? He seems quite tactical." But she can't remember; not that her memory is as shoddy as Lunair's at current time. "Lieutenant Lunair, am I allowed to visit the CIC and observe in my off duty hours? Are you involved," this question for Oberlin, "In any of the sciences on board?" And lastly, "Lieutenant Lunair, I meant to request that you funnel a request through to see if I could gain access to the labs, and Doctor Glory recommended the same path, do you mind?" There. Kai takes a breath, somehow still not having moved from her 'at attention' stance.
"Well, I suppose I can not be an ass and forget about confidentiality forms. But I think you guys get those on any Mercury-Class Battlestar." Oberlin says, clearly facetious and having a little fun with the two Marines here. Not really at their expense, though. "Yes, apparently they found a cat. And Maragos' report was phen—" Suddenly there's a BEEP. BEEP. BEEP at one of the ship ops consoles as a manic-looking ensign snaps his head upwards. "Uhhh, Lieutenant. Looks like we just lost power in sickbay. Making contact." The Ensign picks up the phone, while Oberlin just grimaces. "This shit is just getting /old./ Get a team." He walks on over towards the phone nearest him and reaches for it. "Excuse me a sec." Then another light on the console tics off. "Uhh, LieuteNNNNANT." The Ensign says. It's in 'that' tone of voice. The one nobody wants to hear.
Wait, what? Did she forget something? Lunair looks like she got brained with a pan. "Oh yeah. I picked the little fellow up, but the ECO took a shine to the kitty," Lunair smiles and pauses. Her eyes go wide hearing the news of power lost in sick bay. She looks to Kai, a bit concerned. "Sorry," Kai'll get her answers momentarily possibly but hrm. "Is it due to those wiring issues again?" She considers. … oh dear. Another light? "Um." Cough. Awkward. "Should we get out of your hair sir?"
Brows twitch downwards - not for the lack of answers, of course, but for the itch of something amiss. Hands remain fisted at the sides of her uniform, military form maintained, but Kai's mind is no longer on her questions. Nope, pale eyes seem to switch from bleeping control panel, to ensign, to Lieutenant, to Lieutenant 2, and back. Thinning lips and a slightly tenser disposition indicates this woman is ready to act. Like, right now. It is only protocol that puts her in her place. Stupid marine protocol.
[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!"
Oberlin's day just went from bad. To worse. He starts sighing a bit as he shakes his head at the two marines. "no, no. Feel free. It's probably just." And then the com rings out. "Oh. Frak." Well that was pretty. " He holds up a finger. "Excuse me. And you might want to hunker down here."
That console beeps again as the ensign yells, "We're getting a report of weapons discharge near the Viper manufacturing area!"
<Intercom> Attention! Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship.
"I don't think Marines hunker sir. We'll help," Lunair offers. "Cylons-" IN THE SHIP? That's bad news. She looks to Kai. "We'll go with the MPs then, best to get the toasters off now." She nods. She does at least, politely wait for permission to go get either body armor or deal with the toasters.
Hunker down? Her gun is -out-. "Any electrical disrupter weapons available, Lieutenant?" Bombs on the ship they plan to survive on isn't the best option. No longer standing at attention either. Kai's moved to the door, to peek out, check the hallways, gun nozzle moving with her. "Body armor would be nice, Sir." Dryly stated. She is, for all that shows, quite calm. Experienced, it looks like, despite her position.
Gah! "Please don't have that out," Lunair corrects quietly.
"Nonono, private." Oberlin says coolly, but with visible tension in his features as he fiddles with the console and the phone, and another quick check of DRADIS. "Clear. No hostile contacts outside. Where the flying /frak/ did these bastards come from?" And then he picks up the phone.
<Intercom> Oberlin says, "All hands, hostile contacts reported aboardship. Adhere to Boarding Protocol Constellation Deacon-Niner."
And then, the Lt. sets down the phone as the warning lights start whirring in CIC. "Not sure of anything at this point. We don't know who or what we're facing. Scurrying about to find a small arms locker isn't safe. Lieutenant? Private?" Oberlin states, wryly, "You're going to get a crash course in how to secure a Battlestar's CIC."
"You want… " her gun holstered? Frowning, the woman sheathes the weapon, but her hand never releases from it's originally established touch. Moving smoothly backwards, eyes still on the exit, her response for both superiors is answered with a "Yes Sirs." She understands them both. But they are not hostiles, and therefore her gaze is cast elsewhere.
Blink. A nod at Oberlin. "We've only our sidearms, you can take mine if needed," Lunair offers. She nods at Kai. Best to keep that away for now. The JiG boggles briefly. "Well, she did come here to learn," Lunair notes softly. Her voice is tense. It must pain her to be here with Cylons about. She does gently pat Kai's shoulder. "Point us where you need us sir."
There's a quick, hapless gaze around CIC's environs on Oberlin's part as he shakes his head slowly. "Keep your weapons if they're your only weapons. I don't want to deprive a better shot than me. That's not exactly smart." He looks over at the pair of MPs currently assigned to CIC duty. "Julian. Milne. One of you have a spare sidearm?" Those marines, of course, /do/ have pistols to spare. One of them glides forward smoothly. "Sir." Handing over the pistol to Oberlin. "Thanks, Corporal. This is bad, though. Two most hardened places on a Battlestar are CIC and Sickbay. And Sickbay just stopped phoning home." Oberlin says, unenthused.
<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"
Lowering her body ever so slightly next to one of the consoles, Kai remains ready to defend everyone and everything in this room. "Is the command to stay defensive, or do we secure and move forward, Sirs?" Rather important to know, really. The intercom likely seals the deal. Stay defensive. "Think we should all find cover. Sirs." Standing up might be a very, very bad idea at this point. Marks someone as 'human' easier than not.
Ohshit. "I think there's our answer," Lunair offers quietly. She nods at his comment. A wince at the com. Lunair looks to Kai, "So far our orders are to fortify here," She offers. A polite smile to the MPs. She takes a deep breath. "Frak me," She mumbles. Lunair is like a hunting dog on the end of a leash. She's run into cylons. She has reason to want to charge the Hell out of them. But her bearing keeps her steady. Deep breath. She glances to Oberlin, "Sounds like they're making their moves."
"At this point, if CIC goes, we're screwed. So we get a better tactical assessment before we go forward." Oberlin grimaces as that page comes across the comm system. "So we don't stick our necks out without better intel." Several CIC techs don't need to be told twice. They're REMFs for a reason. "And now? We wait. Ensign, get on ops-comm and see if you can get a bloody clue what's going on." He says to the comms monkey before turning towards Lunair. "Cover. You were trained for this, right?" He asks. His tone is more encouraging than disparaging.
"Do we have a brief inventory of weapons, sirs? Who can defend with accurate shot? Those who cannot should make cover in the back and off to the sides, outside the immediate line of fire." She's murmuring, is Kai, not barking orders. Of course, she isn't in the -position- to bark orders, but the woman needs some sort of reassurance that those in charge aren't panicking. Aren't forgetting how to move. "Any large-energy-milking wires we can separate and use?" Alright, she really -isn't- being ridiculous, honest, but lil' miss Recruit is looking at all options. Oberlin? He's a reassuring fellow he is, earning a small smile from the crouched and ready Private. Off to the side, behind a console, seriously ready to draw her weapon.
<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 —"
Mmhm. Nod. Thank the Lords for intel officers. Lunair'd happily barrel in roaring and waving a black banner. "Sir." She nods and smiles weakly at Oberlin. "We've got you then," She promiess. A blink at Kai who leaves Lunair's brain in the dust. "We have MPs. Everyone in the military gets /some/ marksmanship courses," Lunair points out quietly. She's far from panicing. She's grateful for the encouragement and moves to take her place too. And a blink. "Um. What?" The wire question gets a blink. She blinks. Ohcrap. Marine Country. She winces. There's a pained look for a moment, but she hides it.
"Then you'll do fine. Just remember, they're machines. We live. That's not going to stop today." Oberlin says towards both of them, reassuringly. And then towards Kai, "Some of that tech was hardened against shock when the Cylons were first reated. I doubt they'd downgrade. Tell you what - if we make it through this, I'll send you to Lance Corporal Margaros and you can conduct stress tests." He snickers. Humorlessly, but it is what is is. As the comm channel rings out, he sighs, and picks up the phone.
<Into the Wireless> Oberlin says, "Bootstrap, CIC. Thanks for the sitrep. We read — nothing. Confirmed. It's a mystery. Now get the frak out of that raptor and into position before you die and I get your porn collection."
"Disrupting system components and electronics of a Cylon by way of electrical charge," is her response to Lunair, "In the event that firepower runs out or alternatives are necessary." Not exactly what Oberlin was suspecting, but that least gives her a bit of an answer to work from. Kai shifts ever so slightly. "Permission to draw gun, Lieutenant?" She's rather have a decent chance at her first shot than have to unholster her weapon first. Hinderances and all.
<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"
Lunair blinks at Kai. She just nods slowly. "For now, let's not cut power or wires we don't need to," She notes quietly. She takes a deep breath. "I hope so then," She wonders if these Cylons and those have the same weaponry. A part of her does. She doesn't say /no/ to Kai's plan just yet, but she seems dubious. A frown. "You may draw it but keep steady." Lunair is near the door, perhaps figuring that's a good place to cover and that she can sponge at least 50 percent more bullets than an intel personnel. She takes a deep breath, not liking the news around here. For once, Lunair is cold and solemn.
Oberlin just winces as he listens to the com channel. "That dumbass is going to die at this rate." He shakes his head and then looks back at Lunair. Then Kai. "Standard combat protocols apply here." He adds, as he walks towards the phone again. "Do what you're going to do. Just be ready. I'll be monitoring what chatter I can." He picks up the phone.
<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.""
<Into the Wireless> Oberlin says, "This is CIC. I believe the word you're looking for is /run./"
Into the stillness comes one crewman's soft and hesitant voice: "I'm reading decompressions in compartments thirty-four to forty-five in deck 11, sir."
"Yessir." Standard combat protocols. She studied those. Extensively. Kai's ready. Gun is drawn, steadied like a loved baby in the palm of her hand. Too comfortable, that fit, but it goes with Marine territory, right? Focus remains, even as the channel relays disturbing voices, messages, as the crewman beyond continues to advance the Bad News.
Lunair is quiet. This is paining her. She wants to go take apart some Cylons. Who'd take her for the berserker type? Who knows? She just nods slowly. "Sir." She sighs softly and is still, listening and watching.
"Seal the breach. Seal it off." Oberlin says, wearily. "Admiral's off playing pattycake with his godsdamn nuclear kitty and I've got to run this ship." He sighs, moving to a damage report console. He's a hands-on type of guy. "History lesson for you all. Standard boarding procedure during the Cylon War was to find a way to cause multiple decompressions on a ship. CIC and Medical are hardened, so, taking those out would ensure victory. Which means you can be /damn/ sure if there are any left, they're coming here."
The Marines standing guard with weapons ready might hear something odd — the pounding of footsteps down the corridor: human footsteps, thank the Gods, that make themselves known when their leader enters the room, his cropped black hair streaked with sweat. He holds a magnificent shotgun in his hands, as does the rest of his fireteam of … two. Hey, that's something. "Got here as fast as we could," he says to whomever's listening. "The guys upstairs — frakdamn, sirs, frakdamn. They went down the central stairwell; Mona here thought it'd be a good idea to take a detour. Frakking love you, Mona." The man pants loudly as he tries to catch his breath, dark eyes flicking towards his tiny blonde companion. "Figured you could use a hand."
Frakdamn doesn't really explain the situation in full, frankly, but Kai is fantastically -not- shooting either one of them. Note the awesomeness of her control, the incredibleness of … well, her questions. While they've been given the order to seal the breach, Kai cannot help herself from demanding, "Are there any more directly behind you? What is the situation in full to your knowledge?" Both are given a once over before those pale greens go back to the doorway. Watching, likely, it to be sealed away.
Lunair tenses visibly, but phews hearing they're human. A wince at that. "Close the door then," Lunair comments quietly. She smiles with relief at least two are here. "C'mon, best not to be close to that doorway." She would probably be envious of the awesome shotgun. But for now, she's worried about that dern door and those whacky toasters.. Shee doesn't seem to show much emotion otherwise. The nuclear kitty comment makes her smirk though. Hopefully Nibbles pull through all of thise. She takes a deep breath and nods slowly.
"Situation in full is we got caught with our pants around our motherfrakking ankles while getting licked by a three-cubit Aquarian whore," says Mona, her high voice squeaky and loud in the relative silence of CIC. Already the sound of gunfire can be heard a ways down the corridor, and it's only getting closer.
"Yeah," says her friend, breathing deeply once more. "Yeah. Yeah, in."
After going through the motions of damage control, Oberlin steps away a bit as he looks at the door, turns /pale/. More pale than usual. And then relaxes as the identities of the new arrivals become apparent. "Marines." He says, flatly. Then cracks a tired grin. "Mona." He says, looking ahead at the blonde. "You are my new favorite person. Thanks for the sitrep. We'll hole up here. If there's nobody else coming we should bar the damn door. Thanks to you guys, our numbers are better than the boarding of the MV Kobayashi. And guess what? We're going to /win/ this." How Command-like.
Heehee. Aw. Squeakyvoice. Apparently deep down inside, Lunair is a fan of bitty cute things. She nods and moves to bar the door if no one stops her. She could almost hug Oberlin, but for now, she is intent on barring the door. "Should probably move back away from the door too," The purple-eyed one remarks quietly.
Kai lifts slightly from her position, gun aimed just beyond Lunair. She's taking 'backup' position for her Lieutenant, whether or not it's allowed for. The two survivors? Are no longer on the lass's radar, but not for nefarious reasons. Just… more important people to protect right now, that's all.
Mona would — except for the fact that she doesn't look like she can move terribly much at all. "Incoming!" she squeaks, her shotgun flying up — and then she's blasted with lead from not one but three Cylon attackers now sprinting down the hall, their machine guns blazing as they proceed ever closer to CIC. Blonde hair is streaked with red as she crumples, one green eye blasted out entirely.
"Shit. GET INTO POSITION AND TAKE COVER! Focus fire on anything shiny coming through that frakking door. MOVE!" Oberlin barks, suddenly, as he takes up his pistol and dives behind a pillar as fast as his ass can move.
Ohmygods. Lunair looks horrified as Mona is blasted. No. Nonono. She was supposed to - A pained look crosses her face. Lunair will try to close the door, if she is able to. She'll scoot into cover after she's certain the others are in. Do what she can to seal them.
SeeeeeeeeeEEEEE why Kai was so intent on taking cover early on? Instead of just standing around, chatting with the redshirts? If only she had some arc explosives or grenades; for this reason alone is why Kai suggested early on to be armed to the teeth. "Lieutenant get -IN-," half-shouts Kai, the woman demanding in fact her superior to leave the door alone and focus on covering her hide and shooting at the same time. If Kai can do it, this seasoned warrior can too. Besides, she doesn't need Lunair looking at sticky notes to figure out what she should do from here on out. Lowering herself, she's covered and ready.
Oberlin's trained for this stuff. Sort of. Trained enough that he makes a pained face as Mona goes down. There will be prayers for the dead later, though, provided he's not one of them. "AIM FOR THE NECK. They're weaker there." He says, with some authority.
Lunair closes the door as securely as she can — but even though she's locked and barred it as per orders, it gets blasted open anyway after a full forty-five seconds of concentrated Cylon fire. Three Centurions emerge from the doorway, their armor melted and blackened and splattered with blood, their eyeslits humming with cold and precise rage. One of them doesn't look terribly healthy but it's somehow standing nonetheless — and when it opens fire along with the rest of its gang, its bullets are as deadly as those of its peers. Meanwhile, the back end of the Cylon pentagon is busy covering its advance as the pilots advance in pursuit, their guns pointed back towards the three out of four surviving victims of circumstance.
Meanwhile, Oberlin's gun is brought ready. He's said what he has to. He just waits there, grimly, holding his pistol steady with both hands. "I've got the ghost of Admiral Hauck right here, bitches."
Figures her pistol really wouldn't do much against the stupid Cylon. But it doesn't mean Kai's brows don't dip in absolute frustration. Stupid Cylon. Doesn't seem to brash about cutting the wires -NOW-, now does it? Still holed up far to the side, behind her console, her lack of success means nothing. Kai will continue to fire at will. And yet? She has no witty reparte like Oberlin. Just hasn't been trained into her yet. That comes with next week's boot camp agenda, right?
WHOA! Lunair had just finished barring the door and doesn't -quite- have time to fully duck down. Instead she chooses to hamper her firepower and blast away. After a moment, and seeing poor Lelie get hit, she chooses to move out a bit. "The last time I saw something that looked like these, I threw it away-" She mutters. Pain is evident though, she hates seeing people get hit, especially ones she may command. She is perhaps trying to draw them away from the Intel staff. "Cowardly blenders," She offers to the Cylons. heywhoa~! She winces.
Onward go the pilots, chasing the retreating Cylons. Or the advancing Cylons, depending on how you want to look at it. Pallas is going from cover to cover as best he can, popping up once in a while to take a shot or two before running to the next safe spot. He continually glances back to make sure that they're all more or less staying together. As they come up on the CIC, he sees his chance - the rifle comes up and he fires a burst, his rounds hitting but not doing much damage. "Frakkin' bastards," he hisses. And then up again to fire. "Friendlies in behind!" he shouts, just in case those within can't see them.
Finally, Lasher manages to gets some of his own back. Pausing from just behind the corner, he takes aim at one of the rearguard Cylons — and his shot takes the metal monstrosity through the neck. The Centurion collapses on the ground in a heap, and Lasher pops out from behind cover once more to fire on the second. His uniform is mostly intact but bloodied, most notably on his side, where there's a rip in the fabric and a slowly extending bloodstain. The lieutenant is pale as he continues to fire, but not noticably so that it's beyond his usual complexion.
Mona's friend goes the way of Mona herself, tumbling to the deck as bullets trace a terrible pattern up from his abdomen to his head. Lead crunches loudly into his skull, which folds into itself like a wet paper crane, and just like that he slumps forward onto the console behind which he's taken cover. More souls for Rhadamanthys and the judges of the dead; more souls for Elysium and the wheat fields beyond. And still the Cylons continue shooting, their machine guns singing the sweet song of inevitability —
"Mary had a little lamb. Little lamb. Little lamb." Daphne's reverted back to humming and murmuring nursery rhymes to herself. Moving with the other pilots and never straying far from cover, she crouches behind a large box when they arrive at CIC with company. She supports the weight of her body with bent knees that hold her back tight to the crate and waits for gunfire to finish erupting behind her. "Mary had a little lamb." She finally comes around the side with her rifle, opening up on the same readguard Cylon as Lasher, "Who's fleece was white as snow!" That she says that bit louder serves only as further evidence that she's losing it. Shots crash into the robot full center torso, tearing parts out of it and contributing to the thing falling to the ground in a heap, combined with Lasher's fire.
Oh HELLS NO. They're shooting her Marines. "Ehhn!" Lunair tosses her pistol aside and moves to pick up that shotgun. "Miserable sons of misbegotten fruit pressers," Muttermutter. Lunair is not taking this laying down. Oh no. She hides the want to cry. Wait. Friendlies. Phew. She looks relieved and worried. Either way - It's shotgun time!
The Cylons aren't shooting at people any longer — just over their heads to keep them down and out of the fight while the Centurions in CIC begin to fire at any blinking console they see. Glass bearing the Cerberus' great seal — who the frak thought it was a good idea to put GLASS in CIC anyway?! — shatters as they're pierced from top to bottom by a steady stream of bullets; DRADIS panels flicker before winking off entirely, their cathode tubes — who the frak thought it was a good idea to use cathode tubes in consoles?! — smashed to bits and pieces as the machines begin the methodical process of destruction.
"FRAK ALL." Oberlin pops behind a pillar and pops a round at the centurion's form futilely, jumping back before he gets hit. As CIC gets shot at, he just tries to keep from following suit. Doubtless, he's probably pretty mad at his home getting torn up like this. "THEY'RE TAKING THE SHIP OUT NOW."
Shotgun… GET! "The hells!" Lunair blinks. They are destroying CIC! Memories of the kind intel officer cadet who unhooked her from a severe atomic wedgie return. This will not. STAND. She stays in a wide stance, offensive position. "EAT LEAD YOU MISBEGOTTEN BLENDERS."
"You are seriously," BLAM, "Seriously," BLAM, "Creeping me the frak out," Pallas says to Daphne in between shots. He stops and stares in disbelief as the Cylons stop shooting at people and just start trashing the CIC all to hell. "Frak," he says in a hushed whisper, just watching the glass shatter and the sparks fly for a second. Then he stands up, frak the cover, and starts to fire while advancing toward them.
More bullets stitch across the upper midsection of the second rear guard Cylon, though this one doesn't go down under Lasher's fire like its compatriot. The bloodied pilot moves in nevertheless as the Centurions in CIC start tearing up the place, a grim expression on his face as he advances on the Cylon with murderous intent.
Daphne comes out from cover once the bullets seem to have subsided, and opens up again, letting another burst out from her rifle. Her face is white and her eyes are a little wide. She's entirely too busy to realize she's pissed herself.
She's adamant. -Adamant- about getting at least -one- of those bullets into a frakking Cylon. And if they're focusing on the consoles? Well, she's just sort of step very slightly away from one to fire a shot, will Kai. Maybe not taking cover will be to her benefit for once. Gods be with her.
Almost getting hit in his right hand must have really pissed off the pale Viper lieutenant, who peeks up and out from behind a crate to unload three well-aimed blasts on another Cylon chest. And just like that it topples to the ground, several tons of metal slamming with finality onto the blood-stained deck — right on top of Mona's bloodied corpse, which squelches from the strain. And still the Cylons don't fight back, instead raking the Cerberus' shipboard communications and astrogation consoles with calculated determination. The lights in the room begin to flicker as electricity crackles in the air, and broken controls explode outwards as small sub-explosions trace their way down to the ground. The smell of ozone and blood hangs heavily in the smoky air.
Obviously, Lasher is entirely sick of these motherfrakking Cylons on his motherfrakking battlestar. Another burst from the very peeved-looking Lieutenant slices through the Centurion's midsection like so much warm butter, powered obviously by nothing less than the sheer force of Laskaris' hate. With rear guard toaster #2 down, that opens the way for the pilots to enter CIC, and so Lasher does, waving the others to follow before bringing his weapon up to aim at one of the oblivious trio of CIC-wreckers.
Oberlin howls as his weapon fires off. "Armor's thick! Focus fire! Priority on takedown!" He grits his teeth and ducks out again, watching the bullet get absorbed by the centurion's chest plate.
Daphne stays out from cover and just holds the trigger down, emptying out her rifle in the blink of an eye. Most of the shots go anywhere but where they need to, splintering against the floor, the doorframes, walls, and so on. The rounds that do strike, glance harmlessly against the Cylon's armor. She ducks back into cover, glances up at the ceiling as if asking the gods to cut her some slack, and then reaches for the spare clip she brought with her.
Poor Mona. Lunair will forever mourn Squeak Buddy. Gonna have more baggage than a train of basketweaving mental patients. "… rawr!" Well what kind of battle cry did you expect a Canceron to have? Crabs don't really roar likee lions or - well, y'know. Either way, Lunair is in an offensive stance doing her best with a shotgun.
<Intercom> Polaris says, "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!""
Pallas does a bit of a double-take to Lasher as he brings down the Cylon with three well-aimed shots. At least he helped, right? …Right? "Good shots," he says to the man grudgingly. Stepping farther into the CIC, he picks a new target, takes a stance, and lets the bullets fly. Still trying to aim as best he can, but no longer caring about cover - they're already in the CIC, it's all or nothing now.
She's done taking cover. It isn't an irrational thought or impulse that draws Kai from her cover, but absolutism, realism, fatalism, and everything in between. Tricky combination, those things, but she sure as hell isn't going to die in a shut down ship from lack of oxygen. And she isn't going to condemn others either. From cover she comes, still directing pistol fire at the slightly injured-looking Cylon
The crewman who made that call does not go unrewarded for his efforts. He, like the rest of CIC's defenders, is rewarded by the sound of human voices echoing some distance away. But his resounding cheer is cut short as a Centurion stares him down, loosing a blast that smashes squarely into his gut — and then the mechanical murderer is itself cut down by the focused fire of the pilots, crumpling to the floor beside its equally-nonfunctioning allies. It's safe to say that there won't be terribly much of Mona after she's pulled out from beneath this dogpile.
And the remaining two Cylons? One is little more than a head and a gun, at this point, its body perforated by the thick armor-piercing bullets Laskaris and his men so luckily picked out. The other, on the other hand, is as healthy as ever, and for its last stand it abruptly turns to face the pilots facing it from behind. Chrome plating gleams angrily beneath the flickering light; chrome muzzle blazes forth in full ferocious bloom —
Because if it goes down, it's sure as hell going to take with it as many others as it can.
The Ghost of Admiral Hauck touched Oberlin's gun, here, as he heeds his own advice and tears a round into the attacking Cylon's neck — it sparks and smokes and there's a flicker of the thing's deadening eye, it goes down. REMF got his first enemy kill in this war. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE." He snaps. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. PIECE OF SHIT." He's not /that/ combat-trained, it seems.
Daphne, back braced against the conveniently placed crate she's been using to soak up bulletholes, loads up her rifle, pulls back the loading mechanism, and is rewarded with a full gun. She comes out from cover and catches up with the other pilots.
Lunair might end up being an Oberlin fangirl later or something. She blinks at how brave he is. She smiles as he gets his first kill. It's some encouragement. Pilots, if spotted, are given a grateful glance. Lunair keeps standing in a banazi stance holding her shotgun high. Note to self: Keep AP rounds in your bra. Or something.
Pallas gets a good shot into that Cylon's head before it falls. He's satisfied with that. The old man's attention then turns to the shiny, untouched Cylon that looks like it's about to kill everything in sight. Lip curling upward just a bit, his thumb flicks the fire selector to 'Auto' as the rifle swings around. He knows he doesn't have many rounds left, but whatever remains in that magazine is all for this toaster alone.
Lasher is similarly animated at this point, if not as loudly verbal about it as Oberlin. He bellows in fury and triumph as the second Cylon goes down under his fire, and spits invective at the final toaster as it turns around to make its last stand. "Misbegotten silicate-for-brains metal trash. Meet your maker, you thrice-cursed son of an oven." His weapon chatters once more. "Die, dammit."
Pallas doesn't engage in any shenanigans. No roaring or screaming, just point and shoot. Though he could be pointing better, mind you, since most of eight rounds go wide on the Cylon. Click, goes the rifle. He stares at it for a second even though he knows, in his head, that it needs to be reloaded. Not being a Marine, he doesn't handle rifles often - the drill takes a moment to click in his brain. He ducks behind whatever he can - a busted-up console - and puts on a fresh mag. "Is that how you insult people?" he mutters to Lasher, though the man probably can't even hear him.
BOOM, headshot x3 — that is, what would have been headshots x3 if the Centurion in question hadn't been so well armored by whatever mechanical hand controlled its creation. Having scattered its foes, the Cylon — impervious to all save the luckiest of shots — begins to crunch forward, stepping over its fallen comrades as it advances towards the loud and pale fellow at the center of it all: none other than Lieutenant Oberlin himself. 'No,' the Cylon seems to be saying. 'This is, in fact, not your house.'
Lightning didn't strike twice. Oberlin just had a little jolt there. He had a momentary moment of bravery but isn't suicidal. He retains whatever cursing he can for the moment, knowing that in the back of his mind, if he survives, if this ship survives — somebody's gonna have to supervise the refurb of all these consoles. Frak that.
Reloaded and active again, Daphne lunges forward and crouches, drawing her rifle back up towards the robot invaders. She fires another burst into the Cylon's chest, going center body mass like she has all the other times, now. She's rewarded with a sound like crunching as the bullets penetrate the armor and do some damage.
Yikes! Lunair scowls and pauses, "Why am I always being shot in the face or shooting things IN the face?" Ponder. It is a mystery for the ages. She moves to finish off that helmet.
"So sorry it doesn't meet your high standards of cheekery, Spiral," Lasher quips in a low voice as he uses the same wrecked console as Pallas in order to reload. Ears like a bat, yo. "I'd threaten to tear his bloody throat out, but I have a feeling it'd end worse for me than for him. Not used t' toasters." Lasher prefers to have the actual physical ability to deliver on his threats, that's what makes them so effective. And trying to tear out a Centurion's throat would just be silly. There's a slight tremble in his hand as he works to swap out magazines; could be either adrenaline or bloodloss. Probably ought to get that side wound looked at.
"GODS DAMMIT." It is not yelled, but stated, and yet stated with absolute vigor. Kai remains in position, hardly sheltered by the console she previously used as shelter, gun fully targeting the last Cylon's torso.
Daphne opens up with another burst from her rifle, again center body mass just like every single time. Just like the instructors caught her. She's given up on crouching, now, coming out from anything resembling cover to overextend herself. The shots crash right into the thing's chest, sending sparks and smoke, and toppling the thing to the ground. Her face is white, and so are her knuckles.
"Mother of f—-" And he just wasn't fast enough. Oberlin twists and shouts, shake it up baby, and gets several glancing wounds, darkening the blue wool of his blues tunic. He draws back, stunned and tries to fire at the remaining intruder in a panic.
Must be something in those new bullets Daphne inserted into her rifle: they seem to have an almost magnetic attraction to Cylon armor. But unfortunately for Oberlin, the Centurion gets to him before his allies can get to it, and the fact that it, too, goes down is surely small consolation for the man — as is the fact that aforementioned allies have proven quite conclusively that Cerberus is, indeed, his house.
As for the Cylon on the ground? Shockingly, it still hasn't gone down, though it has lost the use of its legs and one of its two arms. Bullets fly up in lazy arcs as it shoots blindly into the air, the gun's sharp report cutting through smoke and haze and what unexploded glass remains in CIC, where the lights now go out with one last explosion of sparks. The place is a wreck, from the armored glass doorframe forward of Oberlin's position to the plotting table in the center of the room; the readout screens hanging from the ceilings have been blasted to smithereens, dangling down from red-blue-green-white wiring — strange fruit indeed. And then — miraculously — the sound of footsteps growing ever louder and ever more persistent as, too late, too late, the rescue crew arrives…
Pallas just chuckles at Lasher's reply. The chuckle becomes a full-out laugh - so laughing is how he stands up from behind his cover, fresh magazine on his weapon, to take aim at the final remaining Centurion in the room. "I like your style," he tells the Cylon just before pulling the trigger.
Stomp. Stomp stomp stomp. The sound of a dozen or so feet — human, not Centurion — barrelling in toward CIC, at long, long last. Rifles out, combat armor on — a crew of Engineers, by the looks of it, white-faced and twitchy. Coming in behind them, with her humble pistol, is Tisiphone.
Oberlin, nooooo. Darnit. Why does everything Lunair likes get shot to Hell? Maybe people might start surviving if she becomes a misanthrope. She straightens and lowers her shotgun, moving the safety on. "Hey," A look. "Should get some medics in here." She peers at the pilots who have gotten wouned too apparently. She's moving over to at least check on Oberlin. A nod and a stressed smile to the pilots. Either way, poor Oberlin is about to get checked up on. A look to Kai too. She shakes her head. Phew.
Oberlin's not dead yet. But he ain't happy. He just stands there, snapping off rounds. Screaming, in fact, as he fires. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG, emptying his pistol into the cylon's skull.
Immediately she's moving, removing her first flank of clothing as the last Cylon drops, half-shouting, half-commanding Oberlin. "Cease. Fire. Oberlin. Lay down. Elevate your legs. Show me your wounds." -Commanding- Kai, that's what she is. Commanding that he do -exactly- as she says. "-Lay-. -Down-." In case he didn't hear the newest Marine recruit.
Assailed by a hail of bullets, the vast majority of which do absolutely nothing to the thing's armored head, the final Centurion to have invaded CIC topples backwards to the ground, invincible no longer. Smoke rises up from its brutalized corpse, dented in so many places by so many Colonial rounds. Its eyeslit flickers like some demented stoplight — STOP! STOP! STOP! — before it shuts itself down to become no more than a pile of metal, circuitry, and scrap.
"By the gods," breathes one of the engineers who's run in with Tisiphone — the one who snapped at Lasher from before. His gun, held awkwardly in front of his chest, drops limply to his side before clattering to the deck. "Right. Right, right — right. You, you, and — you — " Knobby index finger points to members of his team. "Fire extinguishers, now. Take a couple of Marines with you in case you get ambushed, and for the love of all the gods on Olympus stay away from the central stairwell — " And then, to Lunair: "We really should, shouldn't we?" Breathe. "Right. Right — wireless. Somebody get on the wireless — "
"Not in here, sir — shit's all — oh, Gods no." A black-haired woman has just discovered the corpse of the man — nay, boy — who transmitted CIC's first and only distress call. The sound of retching arises from the corner as the contents of her stomach (already weakened) are deposited onto the floor.
There's scenes like this throughout the room, really — as the wounded try to get to their feet, as the newcomers try to get as much of a sense of the situation as possible, as adrenaline seeps out from the muscles and bodies of every man and woman here. And as a hushed stillness falls over the room, pitch-black save for the orange-white sparks still shooting up from its overloaded consoles, the chronometer on the wall ticks 1500 hours and all's well —
Just another day in the life.