PHD #390: Contagious Party
Contagious Party
Summary: Stragglers from a large group celebrating the return to condition three are met with a thrashing good time.
Date: 23 March 2042 AE
Related Logs: TBD
Circe Clamps Iosif NPC Polaris 
Rec Room
This huge room spans quite a lot of floor space, the support beams crisscrossing at even points throughout the room. The two sides are divided fairly between the Enlisted and Officers with an unseen line more or less running down the center of the room. A couple pool and card tables sit in no-man's land with a series of regular mess tables at the rear of the room, nearest a counter full of minor refreshments like coffee and bags of chips. Magazines and reading material are spread out over the couched seating areas and a few televisions are set-up with a couple of video game systems made available.
Post-Holocaust Day: #390

The Recreation Room is normally one of the messier places aboard a battlestar. Command places a far higher premium on conducting Foreign Object Walkdowns on the Hangar Deck than in a compartment that's just going to get wrecked the next time some soldiers decide to throw a surprise birthday party for their mates. Tonight, however, this tremendous common space looks more like a war zone than anything else — and tonight, Command is more than willing to turn a blind eye to the debauchery.

A ragged banner reading 'We <3 the Fighting Fourteenth' hangs limply from a pair of support beams at the center of the room; a veritable carpet of red plastic cups covers the deck; the stink of Aquarian Pete's finest moonshine hangs heavily in the musty, sweaty air. Half-empty bags of chips lie at the ends of so many trails of crumbs, and here and there a couple of drunken crewmen stumble toward the hatches to continue the party some place they've not yet destroyed. Indeed, the only not-tipsy men and women inside seem to be the trio of unfortunate specialists tasked with rendering this place presentable for the morrow — a task made rather hard indeed by the sound of locking lips and kittenish moaning coming from near the hatch.

The main culprit, as it turns out, is one Krista "Clamps" Laramy, who's taking advantage of the languid atmosphere to play a slow-paced game of spin-the-empty-moonshine-bottle with a couple of other knuckledraggers and assorted hangers-on. Dressed in only one of her off-duty sweats, the other crumpled at the peak of a pile of discarded clothing, she lounges at the base of an armchair as a battle-scarred Marine stalks toward her on all fours, a shitfaced smile on his half-burned face. "Get some," his buddies murmur — inebriated and hardly necessary encouragement — while behind them the banner sags even further to the ground.

Iosif is one of the knuckledraggers involved in the spin-the-bottle game, glasses off and a goofy grin on his face. Laramy's bit with the Marine prompts some off-rhythm clapping from him. "They don't call her Clamps because of what she does with her tools, y'know," he sniggers to another deckie sitting next to him. "Least not the ones they keep in a kit, you know what I mean." Another chuckle and he takes a drink (one of several he's had this evening) from the glass of moonshine he's presently nursing. He looks relaxed for one of the first times in a month.

Perhaps it's bad luck that Circe carrying her clipboard under her arm, dressed in sweats enters in upon the rather degrading scene. Having taken quite a few steps in to look about in amazement, she all but stops and swallows upon seeing the display. The corpsman hesitates going any further her eyes unable to jerk away from the display at first before she clears her throat. "It's about time you possibly head back to your bunks." She says, taking a cautious step forward as her voice carries some strength to it. But Iosif is recognized and a brow arches slowly, caught off-guard by the predicament indeed. She moves over towards him and with a toe gives him a faint boot in the leg to try to unsettle him. Which shouldn't be too hard given his inebriated state.

"Frak yes!" hoots a half-naked fellow with a rather large phallus drawn on his hairy pecs with bright purple lipstick. "But only if you come along with me!" His meaty fist takes a swipe at the corpsman's legs — and misses, hitting instead a half-empty cup. The man's attempt to make a pass at Circe is interrupted as he drops to the floor to lick up the last of the moonshine.

Waste not, want not, right?

Indeed, standing down from perpetual Condition Two seems to have done wonders for morale. Clamps wets her lips in feigned anticipation before meeting the Marine somewhere in the middle of the circle. The kiss is long, heated, and interrupted by a burp that seems far too loud to have come from a woman as small as she is. Her hazel eyes flash open in surprise — bloodshot, like everybody else's — as the Marine snaps backwards in disgust. "Gods damn!" he yelps, legs flailing backwards in Iosif's direction, while around him Clamps and her comrades dissolve into helpless laughter.

"Eh? Wha? Hullo!" All that is grunted, blinked and finally shouted with an even wider goofy grin up at Circe when she boots him. He wobbles, slapping one hand against the floor to keep himself from entirely tipping from his seated position. "Circe! How'reya then? Missed a hells of a party. I think there's still some shine left. We got plenty built up after all them Swarms. CONDITION THREE!" He grips his glass and raises it to toast their current condition. Not really noticing the progress of Clamp's make-out-interrupted until the Marine is falling back on top of him. "Bloody hells…Ooomph!" Grunted as the heavier man lands on him, and he *does* go properly sprawling. He's not in good form to dodge at present.

The swipe made her direction is addressed by taking a well placed sidestep. Circe narrows her gaze at Iosif, "It seems like it, but I think perhaps you should.." She pauses at the belch and then the presently backpedaling marine that is going straight into Iosif. "May want to untangle yourselves and head back to bunks. Sleep it off.." She lets her gaze sweep over the few left and hazel hues come to rest on Clamps. Hesitating a moment, she takes note of the coloration of the woman's skin and a step forward is given. A closer examination gives hint of excessive sweating and those last few steps taken allow Circe to lift her hand as she squats to attempt to touch the swollen lymph notes along her collarbone. "Oh my." She says and drops the clipboard. "Alright, dear. How long you been sweating like this?" She asks first, not wanting to cause alarm as she lifts the back of her hand to Clamps' forehead.

"Like what?" Clamps' high soprano wavers in drunken defiance. She is sweating quite a bit, when one looks at her carefully beneath the lights. A thin sheen of it covers her forehead and face, dripping from the tip of her nose to pool in that cute little indentation beneath her nostrils and above her mouth. Her hand skitters around the deck in search of the bottle, which she finds after a few seconds of effort. The first spin is weak; the second is much less so. Round and round it goes until it slows to a stop — pointing right at Iosif.

Not that Iosif will notice at first. To the thinly veiled disgust of one of the nearby janitors, the disfigured Marine has wiped some of Clamps' copious lipstick off his cheek and hacks up a bit of saliva onto the deck. And Iosif, since his aim is (frankly) terrible. "Frakking — gods, that shit smells like — "

"Balls!" comes a chorus of voices, and the blonde has the grace to make a vulgar motion with her free hand.

Iosif does indeed not notice the bottle pointed at him. He's busy untangling himself from his unwanted close, personal time with the Marine. "Eh…easy there, guv, no harm no…foul…" That's sort of groaned as he's splattered with Marine saliva. An unsteady nod to Circe as he gets himself back up to a kneeling position. It's /closer/ to standing. "Eh…aye…sleep is good…you feeling alright there, Kris?"

This was getting her no where. "Right.." Circe says to Clamps steadily and looks back to Iosif. "I need you get everyone that is left here down to sickbay, please." She says, thinking that perhaps he might be the most reasonable one here. The cough is noted and the fluids that have all been shared, including the bottle are not giving her a good feeling. "Now." She says in a very firm voice and pointedly towards Iosif. That said, she turns back to Clamps. "Okay, party is moving dear. Come on, we got better stuff down a level." She says. She slides and arm around Clamp's back and gets her feet beneath her before she tries to lever her up to her feet. "Just need you to walk with me." She suggests, giving her a good alternative to her drunken state of mind. "That's right folks. We are MOVING the party. Follow me for more booze." She says. Better to promise things that may never come.

"Bullshit!" says half-naked-man-with-phallus-on-chest. "'n' we got plenty o'booze here!" slurs still-coughing Marine. Mob mentality's a hard thing to overcome, especially when it's paired with a) copious amounts of liquor and b) salacious games pioneered by closeted Gemenese teens in the Cult of Artemis. Small wonder that nobody actually pays Circe much attention — least of all Clamps, who summons enough strength to wriggle free from the corpsman's grasp.

"Which one are you again?" the blonde tech mumbles, her eyes drifting out of focus even as she stares at Iosif's face. One hand paws at his sweats, using his neckline for leverage as she climbs up off the ground. "Frak. I've always wanted to do it with a twin." And unless he stops her — and it'll take a lot to stop her — she begins to nibble his left earlobe, her gentle ministrations punctuated every so often by whoops of weary amusement from the rest of the party. "There's two of you," she mutters, making doe eyes at the empty space directly to Iosif's left. "That's SO hot."

"Eh? Why's there drinking in Sickbay? That hygenic?" Iosif asks Circe, blinking in owlish puzzlement at the medic. Though he shrugs. "Alright. Everybody. There's booze in Sickbay." And he does make an effort to get up and perhaps head there. Though Clamps…clamping him stops him. He falls back down again, sprawling on his back on the floor this time. He doesn't make any effort to stop her, but it takes him a second to figure out what's going on. "Eh? Iszak…?" He awkwardly turns his in the direction of empty space she's making eyes at, squinting at it. "We…err…don't do that together, luv…"

Gritting her teeth in annoyance, Circe shakes her head and goes after Clamps. "Uh uh, girly. Come on." The medic tries to get a firm grip on her arm and gives her a tug back, trying to save Iosif. "Damn it, Iosif." She grunts again unable able to get the woman off of him and actually hits a knee trying. "You may want her off of you unless you want to get sick." She mutters deeply, still trying to pull upon her to get the woman up.

"Shhh," the tech half-whispers, bare arms snaking around Iosif's neck while she wriggles away once more from the persistent corpsman. "There's a — there's a first — always a — there's — first time for — " And then, oddly, she stops talking. Or paying any attention at all to the man in front of her, really, as her bloodshot eyes slam closed. Her chest heaves; her arms twitch; her legs splay out beneath her at odd and uncomfortable angles. And even untrained eyes will know exactly what's happening:

"Oh gods," a bulky brunette stammers, jerking unsteadily to her feet in an attempt to get as far away as possible. "Oh gods — that looks like what my grandma used to get like when she started seizing and — "

"Frak!" bellows the Marine, who might well trample Iosif as he tries to reach for Laramy's wrists to pin her down. "Medic — someone call a medic — "

And still the slender blonde woman thrashes about on the deck like a landed fish, her breaths coming in short and furious gasps, her shirt riding up on her belly to reveal streaks of livid rashes punctured here and there with droplets of pus that gleam a dirty yellow as they seep from weeping sores.

Iosif is less-than-firm about stopping Clamps from molesting him, though he does make a token effort to wriggle out from under her when Circe tries to grab the blonde woman. "C'mon, luv, maybe we should just get you back to your bunk, eh? Getting…" But whatever else he has to say is stowed when Clamps starts seizing. He rolls out of the way more or less in time to avoid being trampled by the Marine. He's still kicked - again - but that's the least of his concerns right now. "Kris…bloody hell…what's the matter with her?" He looks wide-eyed at Circe like she'll fix it right then and there.

They call for a medic like she's not one. Circe is already on it. She's dragging Clamp off as best she can, attempting to keep the woman from spasming and breaking something. Her gaze rips up to the marine that has aided in that act. "Keep her down.." He already is trying and she turns. "One of you, run the FRAK to sickbay now. NOW!" She bellows at them. "Frakking piss ass drunk.." She starts cursing below her breath as she tucks a leg in along next to the woman to help hold her opposite the marine. A hand lifts to keep her head in place as best she can, pressing another hand to her shoulder. Convulsions, sweating, the medic is looking Clamps over and not having a damn thing on her isn't helping. Bloody hell was right and everyone here was exposed, though for now, she is concentrating on keeping the woman still.

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