| Early Anniversary |
| Summary: | An injured Quinn and Trask take a stroll down memory lane, even as they're laid-up and unable to walk. |
| Date: | 9 May 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Ain't Time to Pay the Ferryman Yet |
| Players: |
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| Colonial Fleet Air Station Anadyomene — Leonis |
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| The silence here is deafening, for not even the winds dare to disturb what remains of Colonial Fleet Air Station Anadyomene. Its three runways are littered by the wreckage of Vipers and Raptors, their grotesquely melted frames maintaining a sick parody of their original shape. Blasted barracks stand in eerie tribute to the people who died here, their windows completely shattered, their doors completely wrecked. Poured concrete runways are black and rippled, having been liquefied and reshaped by the heat from the Cylons' neutron bombs. They're dotted here and there by the still-feathered skeletons of over a thousand dead birds: the first victims of the radiation that still hangs like an invisible mist over the mountainous ridge into which this base has been built. It's fortunate, then, that the reinforced concrete blast doors leading into that ridge still stand, though the northern passage has been rendered completely inaccessible by virtue of the fact that its doorframes are now one with the taxiway leading inside. The southern entrance looks to have handled the destruction better, though it'll still take some effort (and more than a few explosives) to pry them open. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #72 |
Quinn hasn't woken up yet since she and Trask met the ground at a few dozen more miles faster than any body ever should, ejector seats or parachutes aside. But then, she wasn't exactly conscious when they ejected either, so who the hell knows what's actually going on in her head, much less her somewhat twisted legs. Without an x-ray, the damage is hard to tell, but her left knee was visibly dislocated and her right calf is swollen all to hell, probably broken, hopefully not shattered. The fact she's still breathing and has a steady pulse, however, means they've gotten lucky. If she was bleeding out internally she'd be gone already, right? Hell, she even is slightly beginning to stir, the pain cutting through shock hours later…
Even if Maggie hadn't been more injured than he was, Trask still would've been adamant that she be moved first. To the credit of the away team, they did what they could to make the injured pilot and ECO as comfortable as possible. Unfortunately, this amounts to little more than some painkillers and pillows. Kal currently lays on his right side, one of those pillows tucked between his knees, as is advised for such a back injury. Confined to bed for 24 hours, the only reason he's been so obedient a patient is because he's keeping watch over Quinn.
Quinn turns her head slightly, that making more than a few new things hurt and the room spin, but it means she's conscious enough for the room to actually spin. She groans quietly, cursing in lilting highlands accent in the purest of ways possible, completely Aerilonian, completely hating all of existence. A very redhead slew of curse words. At least she remembers how to curse.
"Not the most glamorous resort, to be sure, but it has a certain post-Apocalyptic je ne sais quoi." That tidbit of Virgan, naturally, is said in a Taurian accent. A Black Country one, no less, which just makes it all kinds of wrong on an innate level, and yet somehow perfectly appropriate with Bootstrap's dry delivery.
Just hearing his voice, and that odd bit of completely mis-accented language, turns Maggie's string of curses into a bit more of a smile. She forces her eyes open, one blackened and half-swollen shut from the goose-egg that starts just above her temple and almost seems to have taken up most of that side of her face. That was her helmet on the initial impact, what knocked her out. It's not much prettier now, except that her eyes are open, and that's probably a lovely sight of relief no matter what. "… fresh air… 'snice." She's not bothering with Caprican, not for the life of her.
She doesn't hold a monopoly on head wounds, although his is less severe: a small gash running from hairline to temple that has been treated and bandaged. "Actually," he continues with deadpan snark, "nothin' fresh about it. The radiation and corpses — hells, even the shit, vomit, and crystalized urine — are stale. You're just scent blind. Even the stink of Viper exhaust and flamey explodey Raptor are several hours old." It does, for what it's worth, smell a bit like they are on the Deck. That's because they kind of are. "Enjoy your nap?"
Quinn tries to take in a deep breath but, yes, she really is half scent blind and half just too distracted with pain and confusion… but the thought of deck can't help but come to her. Her nose wrinkles a bit. "Yeah, not exactly…" She mutters quietly, eyes fluttering shut again as she tries to reorganize her scrambled mind. "…how… long was I out? What happened?" She genuinely seems confused. With that goose egg, she might not even entirely remember. Her muddy green eyes re open, staring back at him in sudden worry. "Gods… how bad are you?"
How long? "Too long." Helpful? Not really. "Worst part is that there's no way to cash in on the insurance claim." At the very least, Kal's mouth is fully functional. The more Quinn rouses, though, the more she's bound to hear in his voice and see in his eyes that he's under the influence of some manner of painkiller. As for what happened, "Before or after that Heavy Raider shot us clear through the cockpit?"
Quinn studies him quietly, trying to ignore the fact the only thing she can feel on her legs is pain. Pain means functionality. She's not paralyzed. She can still work. It'll be fine. So she focuses on him. That slightly slow, drugged look to his eyes, pupils a bit too wide. Her darling Trask, laid up and drugged, stuck with the rest of them. And she didn't get them out of danger in time. She swears faintly, eyes widening as she hears that. "…there was… a heavy raider shooting at us?… Frak…" She shakes her head a bit, sinking back into her pillow, trying to remember something that simply isn't there. "I'm… I'm sorry, Kal… Frak. I'm sorry."
"Yeah." A Heavy Raider. "An' something like… 8 Centurions. Pretty sure we scrapped one before we were scrapped. Major Barto, though… She engaged the frakkin' thing to give us some cover. Got mowed down pretty bad. Sounds like she's not gonna make it." Which is something he self-assigns blame, even though there really wasn't anything he could've done to prevent that, apart from not ejecting. As for the apology, that gets waves off, even if the literal hand-waving is somewhat lackadaisical. "We were coming up on our anniversary, anyway." Of being shot down behind enemy lines on Sagittaron. "No harm in celebratin' early when we all might be dead before breakfast."
Quinn still looks a touch guilty. She got them shot down, she couldn't evade, and she can't even -remember- it. "…Scrapped… one before we were scrapped? What do you mean?…Not… not another random malfunction?" Maggie inquires, the thoughts of sabotage hovering behind her eyes even if she doesn't quite voice it aloud yet. And then he mentions the anniversary and she cannot help but half smile. A tired laugh touches her cracked, dry lips. "…damn… tha's right… I hope this don't mean we gotta to this yearly." Her lilting accent drawls quietly sardonic.
"Yeah." Again, he starts with that word. "Took out a toaster. Hit it, anyhow." With an AP Missile, so it's pretty much a sure thing the Centurion is now scrap metal. It's then Trask's turn to be of dour disposition. "Nah. Not that I can tell. The IFF, though… that frakkin' thing might've given up the Eidolon." And since he was the project lead on the Cylon transmitter, he definitely feels responsible. "Although," he adds, with a snide, self-depecrating smirk, "I'm not sure it qualifies as sabotage if the Cylons banked on it doing that the whole time."
"Damn…" Maggie breathes out quietly, shutting her eyes again, not having the easiest time staying conscious, but she's fighting to remain with him. She reaches her right hand slowly up, touching at her face, her forehead, a faint wince crossing her face at the tenderness of it. "…should… I even ask about my legs… or how bad you're laid up? … When are we going to be flying again?" There is fear in her voice now, earnest… heartsick fear, something he hasn't heard from her in a very long time. She's usually good at hiding it, but pain is a funny thing, especially at these levels.
"Oh, that." Pause. "Yeaaaaah. Some time after you were knocked-out, you started murmuring about how you were going to leave me, so I gimped you." Deadpanned with typical Trask aplomb. "This?" Meaning his own plight. "Was bound to happen. The weight of my ego is truly crushing. It was inevitable that my back'd go out." That would explain the drugs. Even were he not under the influence, he'd still answer her last question with, "Not until we get a functioning ship that'll bus the proles. 39 Vipers, as faboo as that is, ain't gonna cut it." Finally letting his eyes close, Kal relays, "We're laid up for a while, but we can't linger. I'm sure we'll be on the move fairly soon." Insofar as leaving the base, anyway.
Quinn smirks, reaching over to, as very gently as possible, swat at his arm, "Frak off… seriously…" And then her fingertips just fall to clutch his own, giving his hand a bit of a squeeze. It's her best attempt to reassure him… and to take some reassurance for herself. At least her hands aren't ice cold any more, the shock having mostly passed a while ago. "…How the frak am I supposed to be on the move?… frak." She exhales, looking down over her body and then back to him. "And you… can you… Walk?"
Eyes still closed, the man seems drowsy. It's likely he's been fighting to stay awake all this time, and now he can finally relax because Quinn's relatively okay. "That's above my paygrade, but I suspect it might involve a wheelchair or some such thing. Not sure if the stench from the medical bay's cleared enough for someone to brave seeing what else is in there." As for Trask walking, "I'm supposed to be bed-ridden for 24 hours." Like he'd ever go for that. "Not thinkin' that's gonna happen, though." And not even due to his own stubbornness. "They gave me something to take the edge off. I'm pretty sure Lasher had 'em gimme more than was necessary." That's one way to get a stubborn handful like the ECO to be compliant. (Or simply pliant.)
Quinn squeezes his hand quietly again, "…Well… if I know you, you've been staying awake just to make certain that I had some bit of my brain left in tact in my skull… so, now that you know I'm mostly here, you go to sleep. Try to listen to the medic's orders. It'll… We'll need you. Especially if we figure a way to get back home. We need your mind and your hands. Rest while you can. Please?" Maggie inquires gently, staring straight back at him. That the closest she's been to giving him a heartfelt order in a long time.
Fading as he is, the man still manages to retain a hold of Quinn's hand. By the time the 'order' is given, it's already been pre-emptively followed, perhaps because he knows the redhead as well as she knows him.