PHD #365: EVENT - Gone, but Not Forgotten
Gone, but Not Forgotten
Summary: The Fighting Fourteenth assembles to honor their fallen and to remember what they are fighting for.
Date: 26 Feb 2042 AE
Related Logs: Every. Single. Log. Key ones are to be hyperlinked to some of this log's text.
Bannik Cameron Cidra Circe Constin Devlin Evandreus Foxley Kallistei Leyla Malone Marduk McQueen Moran Psyche Quinn Richards Sawyer Solstice Trask Wade NPC 
Hangar Deck - Starboard - Midship - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #365
This Hangar Bay is filled with boxes, crates and other various supplies that are needed throughout the ship. Most have been moved to one end and lashed with tarps to keep them out of the way. The place has gone from extra ship storage on one end and the ability to house over 450 people on the other end. At the moment, however, the room is bare of people save those going about their duties. Most of the space here is given over to housing a large, rather strange-looking transport vessel. Marines guard this area 24/7.
Condition Level: 2 - Danger Close

What a difference a day makes.

The 25th of February in 2041 AE, the crew of the Battlestar Cerberus was high off their victory in Carrier Qualifications War Games pitting them against the Missile Frigate Praetorian and the Flak Frigate Corsair. Twenty-four hours later, those three ships were all that remained of the Colonial Fleet, the earlier dog and pony show of simulated combat utterly forgotten in the horrors of the very real nuclear holocaust of Warday.

What a difference a year makes.

The Fleet is now five ships strong — and strong is most certainly the operative word. Surely, the Cylons didn't count on such a tenacity or ingenuity, but that might be because they did not truly comprehend the nature of the human spirit. It is arguable that they still don't understand. Some lessons are painfully learned, and the purported Twelve humanoid models will soon enough discover just how grueling the upcoming mid-term exam will be.

In the here and now, though, on this, the first anniversary of what has been dubbed Warday, members of the Carrier Fighter Wing ONE FOUR have gathered in the Starboard hangar of the three-headed bitch of a battlestar that they call home in order to pay homage to each and every comrade lost during these past three-hundred and sixty-five days.

Freshly shaved and dressed in the olive green flight suit most of his brethren are wearing during Condition Two, among those who will be reciting the names of the fallen is the commanding officer of the VAQ-141. Although granted some semblance of sleep since the BSG-132's jump to Audumbla Anchorage, there is a weariness about Kal Trask that goes beyond mere physical fatigue that no amount of caffeine can counter-balance — and the brightness of his gaze is indicative of copious amounts ingested, further off-set by the tired lines around his eyes. On what passes for a makeshift platform, he stands at attention with most of his fellow SLs, no doubt waiting for the CAG.

Quinn steps into the room quietly, though she's lingering towards the back considering the fact she's not alone. She's got a tiny little sheep on her shoulder! Or, well, not a sheep, really, a little baby in a sheep's outfit, but the mini-Kal is damn cute either way. Maggie's gray dress uniform fits, barely, but she's managed to tug it on and zip it up in a feat of physics. The uniform is also just a touch marred by the fact she's got a spit up rag draped across her shoulder where chubby pink baby cheeks now rest, mostly quiet but staring at the changing, bit room with wide blue eyes. Maggie's gaze focuses on Kal Trask ahead, listening respectfully.

Devlin enters, dressed in his blues for a change, though he carries a string-strapped gymbag that almost certainly contains his flight suit. Always best to be ready, these days, even if Audumbla does seem to maybe be providing a respite. He arrives with Psyche, hand-in-hand, military conventions ignored in this particular circumstance.

Cidra is indeed still in her flight gear, albeit sans helmet and gloves at the moment. Those are within easy reach should the klaxons sound, but for the moment her hair swept up in a workmanlike bun, and her prayer beads are twined around the long, slim fingers of her right hand. A nod to her Faith, perhaps, in a largely secular service? Perhaps. Who really know with her. She idly moves her thumb along them, pausing over the crudely carved little wooden owl charm between sweeping the well-worn olive wood of the beads. But the motion is done without any real thought. Her attention is on the assembled pilots, expression grave and somber as she strides up to the makeshift platform. She clears her throat soft, waiting for the pilots and those others in attendance to assemble and settle before she gets rolling. She looks weary as well, older than she looked when she took command of the air group prior to Warday, and a good many of those lines won't ease after the hardness of the daily Cylon attacks of the Swarm have passed.

Constin also stands to the back of the Hangar bay, hands composed at the small of his back, boots at shoulder width. He leaves the area of the deck nearest to the recitation of the dead to those of the Air Wing. Dressed in his freshly washed and pressed duty tans- the nearest the enlisted have to a dress uniform. The ship's Master-at-Arms wears a stern, solemn expression as he observes the memorial.

Malone is dressed formally at the moment, although those that look in the direction of the corners might see his flight suit there in case it should be needed. He's looking a bit weary at the moment, and a bit lost in thought where he's standing, keeping quiet for the moment.

Richards's in his dress uniform, freshly showered and the whole nine yards, the MP looking rather presentable. He is hanging in the back, not too far from Cosntin, a hand in his pocket. Silent, stoic and even a bit sad, the man is the polar opposite of how he was just a week or so ago.

Finding that a flightsuit exemplifies the moment far better than blues, Solstice steps onto the deck. The starboard location is given a long look - a place unused except for storage and now for remembrance. The ECO looks forward and then through the gathering lines of people as she strides to join them. The Sagittaron brushes her empty right wrist and she shifts through the bodies, taking a place near the far right and falling still and silent. Her hands clasp behind her, locked into place.

Wow. Look who cleaned /up/. Somebody call the press, for this is a change. Decked out in dress grays of all things and neatly groomed is one appropriately somber-looking Lt. McQueen who ambled up the stairs, his arms dangling motionless at his sides and his expression muted, neutral, even as his head shifts and gazes about the place.

Hair carefully coifed, make-up artfully done, and one of her suits sharply pressed, Sawyer stands respectfully to the side of the gathering, here to represent the Press Corps as the only member of which remained aboard the Cerberus during this constant string of Condition Two days. Instead of taking notes this time around, she's got a portable recorder in her hand, the red light already indicating that the proceedings are being taped for future reference. At the moment, her eyes are on Captain Trask, a small sad smile curving her lips.

Here, as well, is Lt. Aydin, despite the rumours that have abounded on the ship, especially the deck in past days. Flight suit in lieu of dress greys, helmet off on the deck not far from her feet. The only concession to the events of the last few days is the Providers patch on her suit, replacing the one from the Harriers. But in all other things, the Taurian is the same. Quiet, calm, unshakable.

It's a parade of different uniforms, today. Psyche is in her grays, still off the roster until tomorrow, at the end of a long recovery. There's no sign of the burns and the blood loss now, however, just a pale complexion, a somber mien, and a somewhat unflattering haircut — all that could be salvaged from her singed, golden curls. She keeps hold of Devlin's hand, fingers threaded with his, as they enter together, reaching out with her free one to touch Constin's arm in passing. She flashes the big marine a crooked, wry smile and an apologetic shrug for the familiarity, but they're more conciliatory than actual.

Wade is here as well, and he is wearing his grey outfit, the brownish leather band crossing over his chest. He is looking around with a rather calm expression and he is not bothering to cover the scars on his hands. And they are pretty damn ugly, that's for sure. At one moment in particular, he starts to pace around, on a small spot not far from where everyone is. His hands move behind his back and he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

Tyr Bannik is in his greens, as he is among the enlisted here, some of the deck crew that brought themselves over to pay their respects to the officers that they tend to. He sidles over towards Decoy and Bubbles, waggling his fingers low at his hips towards them. 'Hi' says the gesture. But he keeps himself quiet, waiting for the ceremony to start.

Finally, Wade nods to himself and looks at the platform where the CAG is. He presses his lips together and gives the crowd a look before he makes his way to said platform. He approaches Cidra, "Major," and offers a firm salute to her, before standing close by, looking at the crowd once again. His attention drifts to Trask for a moment and he offers a salute to him as well, of course, "Captain." For a few moments, his attention drifts to his hand and he looks at the scars that are now providing not the best picture, but he looks straight ahead after that.

A few of the Areion pilots are also in attendance, in particular those who have been on exchange to the Black Knights for a while. Gabriel "Fiasco" Marduk and Allison "AWOL" Moran and a few others stand together off to one side of the crowd, talking amongst themselves.

Constin regards Psyche as she and Devlin pass nearby. "Sirs," he murmurs quietly, dipping his head in a short acknowledgement of the greeting. The big marine makes the token effort to twist his expression into something akin to a small, short-lived smile at the woman's shrug.

Trask crisply returns Wade's salute, for this is one of few times he'll actually act like the model officer. "Lieutenant." Then it is back to parade rest, eyes forward to the bulkhead before him.

Devlin offers Constin a nod in return greeting, murmuring, "Sergeant," as they step past. He nods to a couple others in the crowd as they go, Malone and Wade in particular, and then picks a spot near the other Knights, stopping there to wait for things to begin.

Quinn is dead quiet other than the faint scuff of her shoes on the metal flooring as she very slowly paces back and forth in the back of the room, just keeping herself and baby in a constant, slow motion so the baby doesn't decide to get fussy in the middle of this solemn occasion. She's doing her best to go unnoticed even as she herself listens attentively.

McQueen's head continues to flicker about like that of a distracted bird, from person to person even though he's not looking to drift into any particular crowd. The Areion pilots get his glance as well before he quirks his expression to one side, forehead wrinkling and then settling into a stationary spot and tucking his hands behind his back. He looks positively — well, officerish.

Standing more toward the back of the group, being neither military nor a true member of the crew, Cameron stands with his arms lightly folded over his chest for lack of anything better to do with them. Somehow putting them in his pockets seems slightly disrespectful. He looks probably about as awkward as he feels, the formality of the event and the solemnity understandable, but uncomfortable. At his side, Circe stands more at attention, the Marine in her, no doubt, recognizing and responding to the formality and importance. Elpis is back on the Elpis, working with the other civilians there to prepare for their own kind of memorial service, though it will indeed be quite different from this one. Idly, Cameron's hands rub over his arms, as if chilled, but the gesture is likely more one of self-comfort than warding off any cold.

Cidra notes Bannik, Sawyer, Constin, Richards and Cameron in the crowd. Which seems to touch her, as visibly as anything touches the CAG. They are offered the faintest of smiles, and she begins. "All. On February the Twenty-sixth of latter year, we returned to triumph. Victorious from the wargames in Uram, where he had flown together *surpassing* well. To the honor Cerberus was reaping from the politicians. To our near ends, though we did not know it. That gala was broken by the attack of the Cylons and the destruction of our Colonies. And for the first time, the Cerberus and our Fighting Fourteenth rode truly into battle together." A pause. "We flew out against the Cylons more than three-hundred strong. One hundred and forty-seven pilots, nearly half our number, died that day so the ship might escape. We have lost more in the days since. Today, we remember their names. A name is a thing of importance and weight. It defines, and it carries memories, and so long as we keep these names our minds and hearts, we can honor their sacrifices in whatever ways are our custom." Another pause. "I shall call the names of those squadrons who no longer fly with us now. If you have any matter to say one of them, step forward to speak as they are called." And so, she begins.

"We launched from Leonis Spacedock ten Viper squadrons and five Raptor squadrons strong. This day, only four of our Vipers and three of our Raptor squads stilly fly with us in proper combat. Here are those we remember."

"VFA-Twenty-four. Thunderheads. Led by Captain Marigold Hogg. Destroyed."
"VFA-Eight-One. The Sunliners. Led by Captain Richard Hamilton. Destroyed."
"VFA-One-One-Five. The Eagles. Led by Captain Olive Lorin. Destroyed."
"VFA-One-Three-Seven. Kestrels. Led by Captain Fiona Shim. Destroyed."

"VAW-One-Twenty. Silver Hawks. Led by Captain Melisa Bush. Destroyed."
"VAQ-One-Three-Five. Green Gulls. Led by Captain Irving Bottoroff. Destroyed."

She reads off the names of those squadrons in complete, pausing in case one wants to offer some words about any in particular. "LT Marvin "Prince" Albert, ECO, VAQ-One-Three-Five…"

"What I said last time still applies," Bootstrap speaks up, far more subdued than the last time Prince was remembered. "The guy was a perv, but he also was my buddy and a damn fine E-C-O. And for those of you who never really knew him, he's the reason why I have so much porn to barter, so some of you might wanna say an extra word of thanks to that crazy frakker." Naturally, there's cheek, but also a vague and genuine sense of sadness.

Foremost, the recitation is chronological, each fateful day followed by an alphabetical, memorized roll call. Rank. Name. Callsign. Squadron. Five-second pause wherein those who wish to speak may say what they will. The leaders of each squad claim their own — or, in the case of the Black Knight's, the SL's appointed second. As for those from the squadrons blown to oblivion, it is Major Hahn who lends her voice.

When it his appointed time, Trask comes to the fore and announces, "The fallen of the VAQ One-Four-One, Harriers." After a quiet clearing of his throat, Trask respectfully calls the first name. "Warday. Ensign Alyssa Alonso. Callsign: Gator. Pilot."

Psyche takes a deep breath as the names are read, bowing her head and closing her eyes. At one point, she glances at Bannik and offers a brief, tight smile, edges weighted with melancholy. From there, her eyes drift over the living, lingering a moment on Maggie and her baby, and on McQueen in his officerial chic. Then, finally, back to front, to the CAG and to Trask, her knuckles turning paler as she squeezes Devlin's hand tight.

For now, Wade remains in dead silence, just listening to the names as they are called by Cidra and Trask. Soon, his turn will come and he has a long list that he needs to cover. It's going to be quite a ceremony. There are some mixed feelings within Wade, because he also remembers those who he fought with in the Chimaera. However, he'll remember them, but won't mention them during this day. Today, in his case, it's about the Black Knights. Slowly, he scans the faces in the crowd.

Nodding in return to those that had given any kind of greetings, Malone doesn't say anything as names are being read, his expression turning into that of a statue for the moment. Taking deep breaths as he listens now.

Cidra has stepped aside when she'd finished listing those blown to oblivion. She takes a place in line with her squadron leaders now. Clutching her beads, eyes grave as they look out over those who've come, pausing on the faces of her remaining pilots. As if noting them very carefully in her mind.

With a bow of her head, Solstice remains as she had stopped, hands clasped behind her but her gaze scans the air - taking in every name, even those she does not know. She shifts upon her feet and lifts her head to finally take conscious stock of those around her.

As the names are read aloud, McQueen merely gazes upon the speaker. His thick brows knit a little more than usual, pausing every now and then over one out of every few names and letting his gaze drift as if dwelling on them. He will then nod as the names continue.

Leyla remains silent, moving and adjusting as the room fills, people trickling in as time and duty stations allow, her steps finally carrying her not far from where Quinn stands with her little sheep-baby. Silence, naturally, reverence for the dead, certainly.

Quinn listens respectfully, her free hand rubbing up and down the sheep's back, though her eyes and heart are given to all the names spoken aloud. Her gaze flickers just a moment in Leyla's direction and she gives a small, respectful nod as she continues her pacing back and forth.

People cope in different ways to hearing the names of the fallen; some crack jokes while others sit in stony silence and some get choked up. It's hard to say which category Sawyer falls in, as she lowers her face and lets it fall to shadow. Ever resilient, the recorder remains thrust out to catch it all on tape.

Cameron bows his head as the names are read off, at least for awhile, till he realizes that if he does that throughout every name given he's going to be staring ad the deckplating between his feet for likely hours and get quite the crick in his neck. Blowing out a silent breath, he raises his head once more and dons a suitable expression of solemnity. Not much of a stretch, considering the day and the circumstances. Still, he cannot help the faintest quirk of a smile when he compares the event here to the one happening on the Elpis later. Like night and day they will be. Briefly, his eyes flicker over toward Circe, wondering if at any point she will step up to offer the names of the dead? Or is that something that only squadron leaders do? Probably. There has to be some sort of order involved…

Devlin remains silent as well, nodding to Bannik and McQueen when he spots them, and then bowing his head slightly as the names are read out and words spoken about some of the individuals who went by them. He doesn't seem inclined to step up to the front himself, just squeezing Psyche's hand in return and listening.

With all due respects, Trask continues to call the names of fallen Harriers. "Twenty-third of May, twenty forty-one. Junior Grade Lieutenant Victoria Emerson. Callsign: Shuffle. ECO. M-I-A." Brow furrowing, a sheen coming to those all too emotive eyes, the man pauses, looking as though he might say further. When no one else speaks-up, he does. "I, uh… I wasn't here for that one. I was busy gettin' clawed by a Cobra Talon… but, um…" A quiet clearing of his throat, a flicker of tongue tip at the dry corners of his mouth. "That was… that was just a shitty way to go. We don't… we don't even know if she was boarded. If she was taken by those tin cans and shipped to one of those chop-shops like we saw on Leonis…" He's starting to get emotional, which means he's starting to get a bit manic, his speaking quicker, his voice louder. "We never found her. She was instructed to shoot herself when it was evident Ess-Ay-Ar was impossible. The Fleet jumped away without knowing what /ever/ happened to her." He pauses, looking down, obviously upset, a single finger horizontally pressed beneath his nostrils.

Composing himself, he takes a deep breath and continues. "Ensign Jenna Malone. Callsign: Scooter. Flying with Shuffle. Believed K-I-A." And then more names until he gets to, "Fifth of July, twenty forty-one. Ensign Ethan Weber. Callsign: Fresh. Pilot."

Quinn holds her hand up quietly, the one that was against Kalli's back, trying to grab a touch of attention when Fresh's name is mentioned. She clears her throat, stepping forward a bit as she calls into the room. "Ensign Ethan Weber…. Fresh…. He's the pilot that got myself and Kallistei..." Her hand rests clearly on the baby's back, indicating whom she's speaking about, "As well as several others, off Leonis. We probably wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for him… Rest in peace, Fresh…" She speaks clear and firm, though not overly loud, before she does her best to blend back into the crowd.

Cidra's head bows at mention of Ethan Weber. A ghost of a smile curving at her lips when his callsign is called. Still, she has no words to give for him, or to any of the other names read thus far. Her manner is drawn rather inward, blue eyes faraway, though she remains standing with her people.

Psyche closes her eyes and rubs the back of her neck, bowing her head once more. She swallows against a lump in her throat — the sound faint, but audible enough to those standing nearest. Another deep breath is taken, the inhalation faintly tremulous, held and released slow. Fingers dab the corners of her eyes, then curl into a fist over her heart.

As Weber is named and spoken of, Constin's stonefaced countenance cracks a tight smile. A slow nod is given, in lieu of speech.

Malone still keeps silent as he listens, studying the others present more than the ones at front at the moment, listening carefully.

"So say we all," is Trask's solemn response to Quinn's words. And then more names, once again rather stoic about it all. "Twelfth of September, twenty forty-one. Ensign Mason Burr. Callsign: Smooth. ECO." Silence. "Lieutenant Rafael Cortez. Callsign: Kahuna. ECO." Silence. "Ensign Jon Hamm. Callsign: Burger. Pilot." Silence. "Lieutenant Julie Walker. Callsign: Easy. Pilot." Silence. Then there is quite a gap in dates. "Twenty-second of February, twenty forty-two. Ensign Henry Launiere." A pause, eyes briefly closing. "He never got a callsign." And, for some reason, that really stings the SL. "That's just not right," is the simple self-admonishment, the feeling of guilt one he is unable to fully conceal. "ECO." Then comes the final name. "Junior Grade Lieutenant Mara Smythe. Callsign: Mouse. Pilot."

Devlin is quiet and stoic, eyes dry as the list goes on. He glances around the crowd once, gaze quick but solemn, and then back to his wife, reaching across his chest to set his other hand on her arm comfortingly. As Trask gets to the most recent casualties among the Harriers, the ensign's eyes flit across the crowd again, searching curiously.

"So Say We All." Comes McQueen's latent reply, still looking back towards Trask and watching the man read off the names with a blank stare, shaking his head merely once at the mention of the lack of callsign, himself.

Quinn isn't quite so emotional as she had been the last few months, but as Trask reads on, she cannot entirely restrain the tears which suddenly make her eyes glassy. She tries not to audibly sob, her breath just a touch uneven as she continues her silent pacing.

As the lists go on, the names, rather than becoming a quiet drone on the edge of her attention, seem to, rather, make Leyla more focused, her attention whittling away to the bare essentials. And finally, as Henry and Mara's names are called, her eyes narrow. Not in anger, but in as close to an expression o pain as has shown on the woman's face to this point. No words… she seems to be biding her time.

Schooling his features once more, rather grateful that no one noticed the small smile that touched his lips which, belatedly, he realized might give offense, Cameron sighs silently again, shifting his weight back and forth to ease the slight stiffness that comes from standing in one position too long. The names mean nothing to him, unknown, unmet pilots and crew that died before he arrived or, possibly, after. Hard to say really. Certainly none were on the ship that rescued him from Aerilon, though he knows there will eventually be a few who died whist being cared for after he arrived. So far he's been lucky. No one has died on his personal watch. But that luck, or rather the turning of it, can only be a question of time.

Richards draws his hand away from his torso, the small item he held in it slipped back to its place within the pocket of his trousers. Looking around after a moment of letting his gaze linger on the deck, he looks over to Constin and then around the hangar and the people within it as a whole, the emotions he allowed to show moments before now stowed carefully away, his face back to the near-blank canvas, the tears no longer to be found in his eyes.

Once all the Harriers have been called and everyone has said their piece, Bootstrap snaps to attention, his expression a grim contrast to the tumultuousness lingering beneath the surface of his eyes. "All honors to their service," comes the sharp salute. "So say we all." His part done, he retakes his initial position on the podium and resumes his parade rest stance.

The Early Elevens then call out for their dead, and some of their living speak some words. When Captain Mikel "Pony" Dhaval, the SL of the VRC-30 "Provders" announced the date of July 6, 2041, and the name of LTJG Mike "Wank" Orr is stated, those whose attention are upon Captain Trask might glimpse the twitch of a wince, the vague tightening of his jaw, the casting of his gaze up and to the right while his head remains level and forward. Anyone who knows the story of what transpired when the Fleet was last in Audumbla and of Orr's demise should have no difficulty deducing what Bootstrap must be feeling, having been the pilot's ECO on that day.

With the Raptor squadrons now finished, the Black Knights are next on the docket.

Wade finally takes a step forward, nodding in silence to Trask. He clears his throat before addressing everyone. "Just like Major Hahn said, we lost entire Squadrons on that date, and the Squadrons that are still with us, did not get here without suffering." He nods to his own words and he takes a deep breath, "True to its nature, the Black Knights is a Viper Squadron that, from the day it's started, has been formed by Pilots from different backgrounds. And even now, many of its members are the remains of other Squadrons, from other Stations. Nevertheless even knowing that, we fly as one. Every time we go out there, we show the strength that we have, even if it comes with great suffering, we refuse to let our souls die."

"The Family of the Black Knights, was expanded, when our brothers and sisters from the VSP-One-Oh-One joined our ranks. And immediately, we adapted to each other, out there." He takes yet another deep breath and continues, "Today is a day to remember the ones we lost, every day is a day to remember them. We honor their service, and we never forget." He nods to his words and then looks at the crowd. Now, now he starts with the names, going through them by memory. Some of them, he never knew, but that doesn't make them less important. No.

"On February Twenty-Six Twenty-Forty-One…" says the man, "Ensign Andrew Arden, Callsign: Deadlock. Lieutenant Junior Grade Gabby Bella, Callsign: Ringer. Ensign Noah Grewal, Callsign: Dizzy. Lieutenant Junior Grade Jodi Lewis, Callsign: Lefty. Lieutenant Dierdre Magnusson, Callsign: Wheels. Lieutenant Marcus Notts, Callsign: Tied In."

This last name, he takes a moment to speak. "Lieutenant Ryan Shaker, Callsign: Salt."

Now, he looks out to the crowd and gives a moment for people to speak up before he continues with his list of names.

When Salt's name is called along with the others, Cidra's eyes tick up and sharpen. Though… she does not object. Surprised, certainly, but she does not object. No words from her, hands tightening around her beads yet again.

As the names of the Knights are read, Malone's jaws clench a bit tighter as he looks towards one point where the ceiling and wall meets. Blinking a bit as he hears the mention of Lt. Shaker, he looks down towards the others again for a few moments, then up towards the point he was looking at again.

Psyche's gaze snaps up, typically warm blue eyes icing over in an instant. She stares long and hard at Wade, like he just blasphemed against the very gods. Her knuckles go chalk white as her hand tightens on Devlin's to the point where it's probably quite uncomfortable. Her jaw flexes visibly as her teeth grind. "Frak that," she whispers.

At the mention of the list of names, McQueen briefly shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes narrowing firmly when Salt gets called out. The lines on his face become slightly more visible as his expression changes, and he turns to glance over his shoulder throughout the crowd. There's no objection voiced from him, either.

"Did he just name a frakking skinjob?" one bewildered person asks his neighbor.

"What the frak is wrong with you, Duncan?" demands another protester.

"He's not kidding when he said the Knights come from different backgrounds," someone else cracks.

"Shut up, dickwad," retorts a pilot. "Salt flew my wing several times. He saved my ass on Warday. I don't care what he was, he's my frakking hero."

Things just get more contentious from there, the crowd clearly not in concord about whether or not LT Shaker deserves to be honored.

Devlin frowns a little, brows drawing together. He doesn't voice an opinion on Wade's choice to name Salt, and from his expression it looks like he probably doesn't really have a settled opinion on the matter. On the subject of how hard Psyche's squeezing his hand, though, he gives a definite, if very brief, little wince.

Evandreus sits, or stands, or… whatever people are doing… with a listless cast to his features, eyes blank, unfocused, expression clouded and made stony with sleeplessness and grief. Either he doesn't hear the controversial name called, or he doesn't care. He responds as much to it as to anything, so far. Which is to say not at all.

"Quiet!" Cidra does step forward as the crowd starts to grow more vocal. And it does come in a sharper, louder enunciation than is common in the CAG. "Shaker was an abomination. This we know. But it cannot be denied that he was among those of us who fought, and flied and died on Warday, and that the lives of some among us were saved because of that. I do not understand the import of this. I never have. But it would be a lie to ignore that, just as it is a lie to ignore what he was, and that we have met the enemy who wears his face. The name is one of ours. What the thing who wore it was, I do not know. But the name and the act I cannot forget. None of us can."

Quinn steps back, further away from the fighters, nearing the door just incase actual violence breaks out. While she'd love to join the debate, she's got entirely too precious cargo in her arms to risk.

One of the more contentious voices in the crowd nearby finally gets a hard, paled-eyed stare on the part of Trevor McQueen. "Heh." He finally mutters. "Shaker always was a pompous, ethical bastard. If the other Cylons really did put 'm on ice he probably went down giving 'em the stinkeye. Probably did it to be contrary. We'll never know."

The wave of discontent rolls through the crowd, washing over Cameron first in confusion and then, as the situation becomes more clear and the reasons for the dissenting voices is clarified, uncertainty. He did not know the pilot in question, but clearly others did, for good and ill it would seem. But as Cidra speaks up, Cameron's eyes narrow thoughtfully, his mind suddenly racing along other paths, research paths regarding what he's been asked to study and, more importantly, what he has discovered.

Malone is unable to hold back a chuckle as he hears McQueen, although he keeps on watching the point high up there for now, keeping silent for the moment.

Psyche takes a deeeeeep breath, pale and shaking with what appears to be rage. The emotion itself doesn't seem to be directed at Cidra, though it's to Cidra she speaks. "Sir, I respect you more than I can say — and I deeply, fervently, respectfully disagree. To equate the programming that led a machine to self-destruct on Warday, the cold calculations that made Shaker play-act us all into his confidence so he — IT could infiltrate us to… to the acts of a real person. THAT is an abomination as well. It was a machine, sir. I had a hairdryer that shorted out on Warday, too. Let's honor that, if we're going to start lauding the machines. I miss my frakking hairdryer."

Constin's expression remains stonefaced and stern. A pass of narrowed blue eyes over the gathered pilots from his post at the back of the assembly is the extent of his immediate commentary on the debate. A slow breath is drawn in and let out through the nose as Psyche raises her voice to answer Cidra's oration.

Devlin is still frowning, and glances sharply sideways as Psyche speaks up. He does not look at all pleased that she is doing so, and even before she's quite finished the last word he's leaning down to whisper in her ear.

Evandreus is slow to react as people start yelling and getting angry, finally shrugging into motion as he draws his arms up to fold them across his chest, distancing himself from the growing turmoil. His eyelids slowly ease shut over his eyes. Bunny has checked out, form tensing with anxiety.

Richards speaks up. "You're all dishonoring the memory of those you loved and lost by behaving in such a manner. How about you save your protests for after the service?" He doesn't know Salt from Adam, the man having died well before Dick ever arrived on the ship, but that really doesn't matter, nor does what he's being accused of being. What matters is honoring the dead in the MP's mind and the current behavior is appalling.

For his part, Trask remains at parade rest. What he may be thinking or feeling isn't evident, as is always the case when too many conflicting thoughts and emotions generate a kind of white noise. As the rancor of the crowd increases, he more visibly becomes irritated. Eventually, fed-up, he steps to Wade and murmurs in the pilot's ear, "Keep reciting."

Wade, of course, remained in silence, giving everyone the chance to speak up, and say something if they wished to. He licks his lips and nods taking a deep breath before he continues. "On May Ten, Twenty-Forty-One… Lieutenant Angelus Nostos, Callsign: Halo"

"On June Eighteen, Twenty-Forty-One…" says Wade now. "Ensign Raedawn Arkili, Callsign: Goddess. Captain Anton Laskaris, Callsign: Lasher"

He stops there and nods at the crowd, "I did know Lasher, not like many of you did, at least. He was shot, down in Leonis. I was rescued from there, by you all." He stops again and thinks, "I know he was the Black Knights' SL at that moment, and for what I've heard, he was a damn good pilot…" He nods again, and he leaves it at that. May others that knew him better say something if they wish.

This past matter eventually banished, McQueen's features take on a little bit of a mild smirk as Lasher is mentioned. A warm enough one, for those keeping score. It's punctuated by a tiny 'heh', if a wistful one.

Psyche bows her head as she listens to Devlin's whisper, her jaw still working around her anger. She releases his hand and folds her arms tightly, taking another deep breath in through her nose. As Lasher is called among the ranks of the fallen, she shuts her eyes — and they remain that way for several long moments, as though in memory or prayer.

Cidra says no more as the crowd quiets again. Even if it is just a calm before the storm of whatever might come after the service. She's had no words for the names spoken, not even Salt, really, and she does not speak when Lasher is mentioned. But she does bow her head and murmur something beneath her breath, in Old Gemenese those close enough to her might catch. It has the sound of a prayer for its own part.

Malone takes a few deep breaths as Lasher gets mentioned, but doesn't say anything at the moment. Jaw still clenched shut as he looks down from his high point, and over at various people present for a few moments.

"Anton Laskrais was a sheep frakkin' prick," Trask calls out loudly over the crowd, but it's said with a tongue-in-cheek fondness. And between his choice of words and the CAG's admonishment, the audience has more or less quieted but is far from placated. It appears that the ceremony will be permitted to carry on, at least. "I, for one, miss the bastard."

There are a few murmurs of agreement.

Wade does continue with what he is doing, reciting the names of those that are no longer with us. "On July Sixteen, Twenty-Fourty-One… Lieutenant Marvin Lee, Callsign: Duke. Ensign Kellan Teasdale, Callsign: Tally. Lieutenant Junior Grade Raleigh Tlazohtzin, Callsign: Tess. Lieutenant Rupert Vaillancourt, Callsign: Val."

"On September Twelve, Twenty-Forty-One… Ensign Daphne Kolettis, Callsign: Click. On September Twenty, Twenty-Forty-One… Captain Ibrahim Sitka, Callsign: Shiv."

Another moment of silence, having nothing to add for his part. This is the time for others to speak up, yet again. There are more names. "On November Fourteenth, Twenty-Forty-One… Lieutenant Alessandra Sophronia, Callsign: Lucky. On December Four, Twenty-Forty-One… Lieutenant Junior Grade Tisiphone Apostolos, Callsign: Money Shot."

After he says Tisi's name, he speaks up again, "Money Shot…" he smiles a little, "When I got rescued by you guys, and got assigned to the Black Knights… she was my first Wingmate. Money Shot re-taught me what it was to fly in a Squadron, to look after your wingmate. She made me feel like I was a part of you guys, and for that, I will always remember her. And she was one of the best pilots I've seen."

Yep, he goes quiet after that…

When Tisiphone's name is called, it is not a pilot who steps forward first to speak from the crowd, but a deckhand - Tyr Bannik.

"We're talking today about all those who've passed. Some died in ways we can understand. They were shot down. They were caught in a stairwell. But some - some you still can't understand -

"Tisi, you were my big sister. My bad, big sister. And no matter how many times I scolded you or yelled at you or tried to prod you, you were always going to be you. The temper, the drugs, the righteousness. I couldn't change that, anymore than I can change the cycle of Time, that all of this has happened before and that it's all going to happen again.

"When you took your own life, I was so mad. I couldn't understand why you would do it. What inside you ate you up so much that you'd just punch out on all of life. Why you didn't say anything, why you didn't reach out, why - why you'd leave us alone, without you, why you'd leave our family.

"You're our reminder that there are wounds that go deeper than the skin, that rip us apart from the inside out, that you can't see until it's too late. Maybe your lesson to all of us is to keep an eye out for that, to keep our family here close, and make sure we hold them tight

"I just wanted to let you know that we - I, at least, forgive you. And I hope that you're around when the Ferryman finally comes to pick me up, because I'm going to have to give you a good talking to, Tis."

And that's it. Bannik steps from the front and down to rejoin the ranks of those here.

Cidra again speaks not on the names as they're called, though some of those seem to strike her more than others. Fingers tighten over the beads again, and there's another soft murmur beneath her breath that doesn't carry beyond those she's standing next to. "A'afiat," is whispered simply. Sagittaron that, if one is listening.

At about the time Lucky is mentioned, a dry sniff of something not unlike amusement slips past Constin's steady frown. Stoic enough to bury it quickly, the last trace of the inexplicable humor lingers in a softening of the stern cast which governs his face.

Quinn blinks back another few tears, these ones not really stopped. A few drops of saline trickle down her cheeks as she turns her head, resting her cheek against the now lightly dozing baby's head. She isn't walking quite so much now, the child asleep she just watches in saddened, heartsick silence.

At some point during Bannik's eulogy for Tis, the tears Psyche's been holding back fall. She doesn't make a sound, only unfolds one of her arms to wipe the tears away, fingers numb and fumbling, before her arms are tucked back against her, miserably.

He was really trying to avoid this moment, honestly. But as the last number of people gets mentioned, Malone is unable to hold back his own tears anymore. Hands behind his back, he lifts his head to look back at the ceiling, through very watery eyes for the moment.

The journalist has been quiet through all of this as she should be, never raising a peep of her own opinion during the blow-up about Salt, not speaking when names of those she's laughed with, ate with and even bunked in the same berthings with are read. But the list of names are long, and eventually even a single continuous drop of water can wear on the strongest of statues. Quietly, she reaches over to set down the recorder on something lofty so it can continue to preserve the moment, and Sawyer herself turns from the conglomeration to step deeper into the Starboard Hangar to hide her own tears.

Leyla, still silent, still unresponsive, as the last and most recent of the Knights names are read out. There's only the slightest tightening of her eyes as Tisiphone's name is called out, but there's no indication that it's sadness that puts it there.

Devlin bows his head as Sitka's name is read and the captain remembered, and keeps it lowered as Tisiphone comes up as well. One arm extends around Psyche's shoulders, and he peeks up at Bannik as the deckhand speaks, but still remains silent.

Wade listens to all the comments in silence, lips pressed together. He blinks a few times and takes a deep breath. He stands straight and looks ahead, scanning all the faces, seeing the pain in their expressions. Truth is, what Tisiphone did, meant a hell of a lot to Wade, a lot. He swallows and takes a deep breath again, trying to not let tears become visible.

Bannik steps back into the ranks, near Psyche and Devlin once more. He reaches over to take the blonde pilot's hand, looking to give it a tight squeeze. There, there. He doesn't cry. He's just very quiet.

There's a little shake of his head. McQueen is as somber as one would expect at the mentions of the next group of pilots - Tisiphone, and the like. His expression turns drawn and maybe a little more pale than usual. "It was hers to end, though. Guess nobody else could kill her." He says, simply enough. It sounds almost fond.

Even before he joined the Cerberus, Cameron was familiar with death. Working with his parents out in the rural areas of Aerilon, working in a hospital as an intern and later as a surgeon. His life has been as full of death as it has been of life. As a result, he's gotten proficient at putting on a calm and respectful mask. It's hard for him to actively mourn those names that are spoken, since he didn't know any of them personally, but the prevailing sadness that rises and builds with each name called is carefully guarded against, his own eyes dry.

There are no tears for Tisiphone from Trask. Only the faintest hint of something sour in his eyes.

After Wade is done, the squadron leaders from the Checkmates, Full Colors and Mighty Lions stepup. Captain Adia "Blowback" Valance reading out the names of her lost with a fierce pride, the Full Colors recited with quiet gravity. Captain Aron "Broadside" Matise has a catch in his voice as he goes through the list, particularly when he touches on Ensign Emilie "Snag" Villon," then coughing at Captain Kefir Abbascia. His eyes are misty by the time he finishes it, but the names are done, with the requisite pauses for others to speak as they will.

Psyche rests her head on Devlin's shoulder for a moment as his arm encircles her, a last few, persistent tears dislodged by the kindness and concern of the gesture. As Bannik's hand finds hers, she blinks and looks his way, then closes her eyes and returns the squeeze. Her head is bowed once more with another deep breath and another audible swallow. She nods a little. She's got it together. She'll be okay. At McQueen's observation, she utters a faint, choked sound — possibly a sob. Maybe a laugh.

And so it goes, day of fatality after day of fatality, each squadron calls the names of their fallen. Every now and then, someone in the audience speaks up about one of the deceased. Some of the tales are funny, some are not. One pilot from the Full Colors is visibly in tears, unmistakably sobbing even while laughing when recounting a story about the wingman he lost above Picon Anchorage.

The woman who's been silent until this moment, takes a step to settle herself to attention. Her voice, as well, rises, loud enough to reach to the edges of the hangar, devoid as it is of the normal noises of the day to day life on the deck. "Attention on the deck, all eyes to the rear!" Leyla seems to expect, as perhaps she should, that all of those gathered in the starboard hangar will heed the call to order. Once the room has once again settled, she continues, "For three hundred and sixty-five days, we have fought and flown and died together. And yet, as we come together in memory of those who have given the ultimate sacrifice so that others may live, those who stand here today as representatives of that ultimate sacrifice, the same sacrifice that in the days to come, we will ourselves be called to make, stand here in the back of the room, inconspicuous, almost forgotten."

Leyla turns, nor fully away from the gathered, but enough that she can address the people standing closest to the rear of the hangar deck, "Dr. Cameron Adair. Survivor. Rescued from Aerilon. As we rescued humanity from Parnassus, from Leonis, from Sagittaron, from Aerilon, from Tauron. This is what they fought for. This is what we fight for. The right for humanity to survive, the right to life." A slight nod, to the doctor, before Leyla shifts her attention to Mom and sheep. "Captain Margaret Quinn, callsign: Jugs. One of our own. Who fought for her life and the life of her unborn child on the hell of Leonis. She fought as we all do today and everyday, as those we remember did, for the right to hope for the future. A better future than perhaps we thought possible in the wake of Warday and the terrible losses that have followed."

Finally, Leyla's attention turns to the small half-human, half-sheep hybrid on Quinn's shoulder. "Kallistei Quinn, callsign: Mayday. Daughter of Maggie. Sister to all of us. The living embodiment of that future. Of our future. A future that is being won by blood, one day at a time. Think on the names, remember the faces of those who have come before. But when you falter, when you begin to flag, look at these faces, and the faces of those these three stand in honour of and remember. We fight and fly and die together. We do those things for Life. For Hope. For the Future. For the day when we will meet again those we have loved and lost. For the day we go into their presence and know that in their great company, we will not be ashamed."

"So say we all," is Cidra's short but firm response to Leyla's words.

Sawyer turns as attention is pulled to the back of the assembly, hastily wiping her eyes with a handkerchief and stuffing the material back into her pocket. She offers a bleary smile to those mentioned and Leyla, echoing Cidra's, "So say we all." Because really. There is a baby dressed like a sheep. Come on. As if chastening herself, she returns to her post and her recorder.

Wade looks at Leyla when she speaks, he remains in silence, just listening. His attention is only broken when Cidra speaks up and he nods at her words. "So say we all." And then he looks at the crowd. "So say we all," this time a lot more firm, a lot more loud.

Quinn's eyes widen as she hears those words, her tearful features suddenly on display for everyone as she stands, previously hidden, in the back of the room with her sleeping baby. She stares at the room, almost entirely deer in headlights at the moment. She's totally shocked. Slowly, she shifts the baby forward, even if that gets a fussy squirm from the tiny girl, so the crew can see the sheep-clad baby's face, her head now cradled against Maggie's sternum.

The doctor nearly jumps as his name is called out so very unexpectedly, eyes rising along with a blush of embarrassment upon his cheeks. As a physician and healer, the last thing Cameron wants is for someone to die for him. And while no one has done so directly so far, to be called out as an example of what the fleet has to fight for is rather… awkward for the good doctor. It takes all his muster to stand still and steady and not shuffle his feet, his hand lifting to his mouth as he discreetly clears his throat and tries to look as inconspicuous as possible.

"So say we all," comes the resounding refrain of those assembled. Upon Trask's own weary face, a small smile of affection and pride.

Keeping silent as he listens, turning a bit at Leyla's words, while still looking at the ceiling, Malone listens, rather carefully. "So…" he begins, going silent again for a few moments, and a few deep breaths. "So say we all…" he finally mutters.

"So say we all," murmurs Bannik quietly, flashing a smile at the baby. He squeezes Psyche's hand hard.

Maybe it's a blonde thing, but Psyche looks more confused than moved. She glances from Cameron to Maggie to the baby — and finally to Leyla. She glances at Devlin and Bannik, those closest in proximity, for help. Baffled. "Was that a birth announcement?" she hazards, sotto voce, to Bannik.

Richards intones quietly, "So say we all."

While many focus their attention on the back of the room, Lieutenant Gabriel "Fiasco" Marduk takes this opportunity to invite himself up to the platform next, giving something of a wave, though his manner is more (much more) subdued than usual. "Hey, everybody," he begins, jumping right in and assuming attention will make its way back to him, "I'm not gonna get up here and read off the names of all the Evocati that've died since the attacks. We've lost a lot of people over there, too, but I figured I was here now, so I might as well come hang with you all and hear your list too, you know? I just wanna say this, you guys: every single person in this fleet that's died since those attacks, they didn't die for nothing. And every single one of us who dies in the days ahead, we're not gonna be dying for nothing, either. These frakking toasters think they can come in here and wipe humanity out and we're just gonna let them? No frakking way in hell. Psycho bastard robots do not get to rule this system. Psycho bastard robots get shot to hell, and that's what's gonna happen to every last one of them before we're done. Whatever it takes to make sure those that sacrificed their lives didn't die in vain. Whatever it takes to make sure this universe is free from these genocidal frakkers."

He looks around at the assembled crowd, animated features hard, and serious, thick dark brows furrowed, "Whatever it takes, we're going to see this through. So say we all." He lifts a fist in the air for a moment, and then hops down from the platform, and heads back towards his little knot of Areion pilots and ECOs, where Tango is nodding and AWOL stands silently, lips set in a thin line.

Lieutenant Allison "AWOL" Moran tenses as Fiasco speaks. There are tears in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks now. No 'So say we all' from her, and not even a real display of agreement with all that. For a beat, it looks like she'll take to the platform herself. But she doesn't. She sinks deeper into the crowd, where perhaps her quiet weeping can be ignored.

Psyche smirks, pointing toward Fiasco & Company. "THAT I understood," she reports quietly. Maybe babies just make her stupid.

"So say we all," is echoed by those assembled, this time with more righteous fervor than solemn vow.

Quinn echoes warmly again now, "So say we all." Her shock having worn off and the attention no longer upon her either, so she can focus on listening once again.

Leyla, with an answering, 'So say we all," returns her attention back to the front of the assembly, once the Areion's pilot takes the stage. She said what she needed to say, now, she listens.

Devlin echoes that 'so say we all', nodding as he does even though he says it softly. Psyche's comment earns a soft snort, and he peeks around her once at Bannik before looking back to the make-shift stage.

Wade focuses his gaze on Fiasco as he starts his speech, the man remains in silence and looks at the crowd, placing his attention on AWOL for a moment. He looks at her, and keeps looking at her while his mind is invaded by the memories of his best friend, his friend who died fighting, or so he thinks. He turns his attention to Cidra, Trask and the other SLs there. He offers a firm salute to them. "Major, Captains." After that, his attention returns to AWOL and he steps down, walking towards her. When he gets to where she is, he extends his hand to take her own, looking deep into her eyes. After this, he places a soft kiss on her cheek and squeezes her hand.

It's become something of a free-for-all. Rather than make a move from his spot, the impassive Trevor McQueen stands at attention and just — listens. After Fiasco's speech, the man oddly intones something from scripture. "Any attempt to return to our birthplace will exact a price in blood." It's a paraphrase, of course. "We've paid it. We will make them pay it. An' By the Gods, the bill hasn't even come bloody due yet."

Malone remains quiet for now, just listening to what's being said. Those looking in his direction can see a half-smile on his expression now.

"So say we all," Cidra says, stepping up on the platform again. She looks out over the crowd. "Well. This was perhaps not a morale-booster." It's almost a joke, if a black one. "It should not be, though. We have all lost those we loved, and such losses are messy and raw and terrible. This day, a year ago, we all paid in blood, and some of us are still trying to reconcile the causes of that horrific day in our minds. I admit to you now that I cannot. But. You have all kept flying, and fighting, for the defense of this ship and this Fleet and what remains of humanity. Whatever else we may be, whether we are friends or not when our boots hit that hangar deck, we have bled together up in the black and that ties us in ways we cannot sever. I love you all, my brothers and sisters, who like true family we did not get the luxury to choose. But I would choose no other if I could, save only that I would give my soul to fly with those read here today again. Honors of their service." And that is all from her. She steps down again. Unless other have something more to say, it's as good as a dismissal.

Fiasco nods at the response to his speech, especially at McQueen. "So say we frakking all," he replies, as solemnly as such a thing can be uttered by such a man. As AWOL moves away he turns to watch her for a moment, her and Wade, and his brows knit once again. He turns away after a time, back to McQueen. "Blood will have blood," he agrees, "Whatever they have that passes for blood, we'll spill every last drop or die trying." He turns then to listen to Cidra's closing, nodding along enthusiastically.

"He should be here, Drips," Moran says very quietly to Wade when he takes her hand. "Colton should be here. He was a better pilot than I am. He should be here. Not me. And I just don't understand why…" The kiss just makes her sniffle again. She is not in proper Evocati form today.

Effectively dismissed, Trask calls out, "CAP launches in ten minutes. If you're on the roster, finish up and head on over for pre-flight." With that, he hops down and disappears into the crowd.

Wade nods to AWOL as she speaks "Yes, he should be here." He takes a deep breath and shakes his head "No, no… AWOL, don't say that. Don't you dare say that you shouldn't be here." He leans down a little to look into her eyes. "You hear me… don't you ever say that." He shakes his head and kisses her cheek again, "Life would suck pretty bad if you weren't here…" whispers the man to her, smiling softly at that.

Post-service reactions continue here.

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