PHD #319: Darts
Summary: Mark Makinen is promoted to Chief Engineer.
Date: 12 Jan 2042 AE
Related Logs: Pressure Points - Damage Control and The Things We Carry
Gabrieli Mark Pewter 
Engineering — Deck 11 — Battlestar Cerberus
Pipes, conduits, and cramped passageways. Heat and the smells of sweat and machine oil. Engineering is a maze of hallways that run deep into the aft of the Cerberus. Dotted with a few storage rooms, offices, and workshops, this section of the ship is constantly staffed by a huge team of professionals. From the main fuel tank feeds to the massive FTL drive room, no other part of the ship is more important than this section that provides propulsion and life support to every section of the battlestar.
Post-Holocaust Day: #319

Some department heads have fancy offices with nice chairs, penholders, and personal coffeemakers. Engineering's "office" is as one might imagine for a department that finds its dignity in the number of grease streaks on uniforms at the end of the day. It's a small joint, nothing more than an extension of the main room with a very unfancy door, usually ajar. Inside is as much outright work space as office space, blueprints tacks up every whichwhere and machine parts in bins to be picked over in moments of brilliance, two computers constantly running (one hooked into the mainframe and one not), and an old dartboard hanging on the back of the door. Despite its lack of beauty it's nevertheless a place of serious Shit Get Done, the desk meticulously set up with a system to keep track of work orders coming in and out, damage reports, research demands, and everything else that passes through here on the way to the heart of the ship.

Gabrieli is here waiting for Pewter and for Mark, in his fatigues and that drawn-on cap of his. He's definitely looked better in his life, even if he has improved in the last two weeks or so, settled in a chair rather than stand while he waits.

Mark has not had an office since months before Warday. He tends to just try and juggle on the fly. Its worked so far and surprisingly well. So it very likely is not a surprise when the man raps knuckles on the door looking like he took a roll down a dirty airshaft. He just cannot manage to stay clean. The orange snipesuit he smudges and carbon trade running down the arms and legs. At least he seems to have had time to splash some water on his face, though. Gloves flop from the pocket on his chest and he smirks at seeing the Captain in his office. "Hey, sir. Good to see you back on the job." He lifts a casual salute to the man.

It'll take Andrus Pewter some time to stump down seven decks' worth of stairs to Main Engineering, and when he shows up he's panting ever so slightly in pressed duty blues that emanate just a bit more heat than perhaps normal. Evidently, they're freshly pressed. "Colonel on the deck!" an alert snipe calls from somewhere outside Gabrieli's office. It's the only warning the pair will get — well, it and the Colonel's grunted "Stand easy" — before the burly man pushes open the hatch with a stiff-arm worthy of the lead defender on his beloved Sharks.

"How the frak y'all doin', boys?" he asks, snapping off a quick salute in case one or both of the pair chooses to greet him formally.

Gabrieli's return salute is even more casual than the offered one. It takes more than an office party to make him salute by regs. "Lieutenant. Thanks for coming. Deck apparently took advantage of my absence to steal our coffee machine, so…once we kneecap a few I might actually be able to offer that again." He glances at the door at the shout of said watchful snipe. Not standing, but at least sitting up straight — which spurrs two sharp coughs into his closed hand before he salutes with it. In his sort-of way. "Colonel, come on in."

"I'll go yell at Andreas and make sure he understands the meaning of 'No!' and he beats some butt around hi-" Then comes the call. Mark seems a little surprised and turns a bit to see the door as he straightens and lifts another salute. Having it waved away, he blinks. "Colonel, sir."

"Somebody stole y'all's coffeemaker?" Pewter plops himself down in a chair stored beneath the dartboard, plucking one of the red-fletched missiles out of the bullseye as he does so. A big hand covers his left eye as he sights down an imaginary scope. "What're these pointy things still doin' in the frakkin' board?" he wonders. Stay the hand of vengeance? Naw.

"Those aren't to be defiled, Colonel," Gabrieli crooks a finger board-wards. "For resolving internal feuds only, that's my rule and I'm sticking to it." He settles back in his chair, which unlike many other chairs on the Cerberus does not squeak. Engineering does take care of its own. There are two other chairs in the room, in case of foot fatigue on the part of the others. He keeps an eye on the Colonel, letting the man control the steer into business conversation.

Mark doesn't quite know what to make of what exactly just took place, but he knows he was called down here for a reason. As with the planning meeting, the Lieutenant opts to be seen and not heard for the moment. He puts his hands into his pockets and looks to Gabrieli curiously.

Thankfully, Pewter doesn't loose the dart, though he does draw his hand back as if he intended to chuck it at the blueprint opposite. "Weight's good," he observes. "Sheeeyit, boy. Knew a lady back home. Used to use these puppies good as any — hah. Must've lost a year's salary tryin' to wreck her. Cold as that frakkin' queen in that chess shit, too. She smart, she fast, she go-get-shit-done.

"The queen ain't no bitch, sir," Gabrieli agrees, mildly. He eyes the blueprint that Pewter's got his sights on, then the two other chairs in the room. To Mark he makes a motion towards one. "Have a sit, El-Tee. Care to join us, Colonel?"

Mark looks to Pewter as he talks about the dart and some lady. Eventually his brow furrows and he lifts a hand and thumb that is gestured towards the door. "I can come back later, sirs? We've got a retrofit team unpacking in thirty down on the Ordnance Deck." He lets that hang in offering. He has no idea what they are talking about. Clearly. But Gabrieli is offering a chair and the Lieutenant shrugs and moves to take up the seat. The Lieutenant finds himself lacking anything else to input.

"Ain't. No. Bitch." And then, without warning, the surprisingly agile Colonel is chucking the dart directly at Mark's chest — with just enough force that it might pierce the outer layer of the man's uniform. "True. What 'bout y'all, boy? Y'all got all the moves?"

If this meeting didn't have the edge of conspiracy before, it might now. Mark's offer to return later goes ignored and the dart goes flying — Gabrieli's elbow is on the arm of the chair, hand half covering his mouth, but the smirking is clearly evident nonetheless.

Mark tries to dodge out of the way, arms lifting up and nearly knocking into a bin of parts. It catches the uniform and tumbles through the air and onto the ground. The chair nearly tipped with the move. He's not amused as he looks between the two. "I've got a mind to move out of this office, sir," he deadpans.

Pewter looks at Gabrieli, shaking his head in evident disappointment. "Y'all sure about this one?" he wonders, talking as if Mark's not even in the room. "Sure he's got a brain that's tight as a terrapin's beak, but damn if he isn't lookin' shit dumb now. Who's number two on the list?"

Gabrieli's silent for a while, just eyeing Mark over his hand. This is how a moment can change an entire mood; rather than playing along too far with Pewter, the ChEng's eyes are quite serious. Decisions being cemented. Finally he looks back at Pewter. "Bet my ass you looked much the same way on one of your days, sir." His eyes flicker back to Mark and he nods once, slowly. "I stand by this, Colonel. One hundred percent-" A bout of coughing cuts off his last word, but it was audible.

The Colonel didn't even know Mark's name a week ago and that has not been forgotten. By the look Mark is giving to Pewter right now its pretty clear that he has a few choice words for the Colonel. Very choice. None of them kind. His arms finally drop and he reaches for the dart. Leaning forward, he sets it on Gabrieli's desk and glances to the Captain.

"Bet y'all's ass I done looked worse on one of my days," is Pewter's amused reply, though he too has dropped the fuddy-duddy act — judging from the laborious way he stands to retrieve the dart and press it deeply back onto the board. "In that case, Lieutenant Makinen, it is my great displeasure to tell y'all that y'all's brass pins are frakkin' grimy as the rear end of a diseased Virgan whore, and on this ship that's just somethin' with which I cannot put." Oddly convoluted grammar from somebody who — if the rumors are true — doesn't have too sophisticated a command over Colonial Standard. It's doubly strange because Mark's rank insignia are spotless as spotless can be. "Especially not," the Colonel continues, "from a senior officer." And from his pocket he produces a dark velvet box, standard issue, its top emblazoned with the seal of Battlestar Cerberus. "Congratulations, Captain. If y'all check y'all's pidge, y'all will find official orders transferring y'all billet to this beautiful ship as her Chief Engineer. Try to keep these kept up better, huh?"

Gabrieli struggles with stemming his coughing fit through the beginning of Pewter's speech. Thankfully, his still-healing lungs decide to be respectful by the time the pins come out. The now-former ChEng's reaction to the change finally out and official is secure behind an officer's poker face, a faint smile and nothing more. "Congratulations, Captain. She's a good ship, she'll take of you. So will we."

Mark has trouble understanding anything that leaves Pewter's mouth. Period. Its not a reservation for certain instances like this. He looks to the pins on his collar and frowns. What? He then drifts his gaze back up towards Pewter. Perhaps its not so odd that the box being presented is better understood. Blink. Blink. His attention meanders back up towards Pewter and then to Gabrieli as he takes the box. Its not quite panic but something more akin to shock. "Uh, sir? You're not returning to duty?" He's not smiling yet. Give it a few minutes.

Reaction to Promotion Type Twenty-Two Subtype C: Confused Silence Followed Shortly Thereafter By Question With Obvious Answer. Pewter's seen about ninety different versions of Reaction 22c, but if his broad grin is any indication, his past experience doesn't make this any more entertaining. When he speaks, though, his words are entirely devoid of humor. "Captain Gabrieli got hurt grievous bad savin' our collective behinds from that godsdamned Cylon nuke," he explains, leaving it at that. "On his say-so, I'm handin' over direct control of day-to-day Engineering operations to y'all, though he'll be retained in a supervisory role to help y'all get used to all the new shit y'all's got to do. Supervisory," the colonel repeats, fixing Gabrieli with a faintly amused look that suggests he shouldn't even try overstepping his bounds on that one. "Now clear the frak out of here, boy, 'fore that jaw of y'all's gets glued to the deck."

Gabrieli crosses his eyes as Pewter emphasizes THAT WORD. He looks back at Mark, clearing his throat. "Captain. I've stood exactly where you have…exactly. It's not the easiest of transitions. I wish the engineer I took over for had been there to help me take my training wheels off — and that's what I'm here to do for you. I know this ship and my crew like the back of my hand, and I'm not going to have my head up your ass every minute but I will be here to support you. As I get back on my feet more I'll be taking up more responsibilities around here…" He lifts his chin to Pewter and then back to Mark. "I've got proposals for both you and the Colonel to look over, for some focused work. That'll come as it comes. So. I am on duty, just have to watch out for the warden over there." He smiles slightly at Mark. "We'll take it a day at a time."

Mark holds the box in his hands, staring at it, then Gabrieli. Then Pewter. Then the box. Its slowly dawning on him that he has the keys to a Battlestar. Pewter might order people around, buut.. "Uh, yessir." Mark rises from his chair and looks back to the now-other Captain. "Yes, sir. I think I understand. I think I probably just need a few hours to let my mind kick back over. I think it just backfired and has now flooded." The man tries to smile but need a calming breath before doing that. But seeing as how Pewter just ordered him out, he's going to listen. "Thank you. Both of you. Sirs." Another nod of his head and he moves for the hatch with the box still held in both hands.

Pewter simply watches the two men do their thing from his post by the dartboard, back turned, massive hands folded behind his back. It's only when Mark makes as to leave that he turns, having used the moment to force his expression back into its usual genial contours. "One more thing, Captain," he says, voice gentle. "If all it takes is me bein' just a bit of a prick to set y'all off, maybe y'all should give a think on what them skinjobs might do to frak y'all's mind, hear?"

"Go tell someone to find that coffee maker, will you? Frakking deck." Gabrieli tilts his head, rubbing his fingers over his pale forehead just under the cap brim. "Buzz after you've puked a bit. I've got some orientation you'll need to stay awake through." He doesn't get up yet, letting Pewter have his last words with the new department head.

Mark was smiling. When he goes to leave, though, and hears that, he looks from Gabrieli and back to the Colonel. "I don't walk this department wondering who is going to throw a dart at me, sir, because that would be paranoid and counterproductive. Just like snap judgments about who might be a Cylon or how they might mess with me, Colonel." Taking hold of the handle, he looks back to Gabrieli and nods. "Aye, sir. I'll come find you after this retrofit. Thank you." He nods to the man and slips out into the hallway.

"Bullshit," chortles Pewter under his breath, shooting Gabrieli a look. "Guy really was pissed."

"Wear your fishnets next time you go messing with people, sir," Gabrieli answers, mildly. "I mean, that always makes me feel better." He keeps his eyes on the door, lowering his voice as Mark turns off to go. Whether or not the man makes it out the door just then, he won't hear the word to Pewter. "Thanks."

"Kitchen'll only get hotter," rumbles Pewter. He, at least, is unapologetic — and if he hears Gabrieli's secret whisper, he's gracious enough not to mention it. Instead, with deliberate motions, he withdraws that red dart and its two sisters from the board before pitching the lot toward the ex-ChEng's chest. "Bet y'all a top-shelf bottle that crippled ass of y'all can't beat me to ton-twenty," he says, his other hand already grabbing the blues.

Gabrieli catches the darts in a pile tumbling onto one leg. "Shit, can you even see that far?" He sets the darts on his desk and keeps one in hand, turning the plastic-feathered thing over his not-entirely-steady fingers. "My first week, three separate people got me to call 'Lieutenant Lyon'. Hazing ain't what it used to be."

Pewter's stifled laugh turns into a furious growl of a cough. Thwip comes the sound of his first dart hitting board before he'll speak again — this time, more quietly. "No, Captain," he murmurs. "Sure ain't." Thwip. Thwip.

Your shot.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License