PHD #023: EVENT - Good Intentions
EVENT: Good Intentions
Summary: A memo with the best of intentions may have been taken a bit out of context. Rumors escalate, civilians run wild, and CMC members kinda solve the problem. Kinda. Special guest Marko wonders what to make of it all!
Date: 21.03.41
Related Logs: None.
Demos Arkat Silas Krysesi NPC Marko Tucana 
Hangar Deck - Starboard - Midship - Battlestar Cerberus
Post Holocaust Day: #23
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. Whatever could be made into cots has been set up like a huge barracks. Some areas have been made more presentable with a few items that belong to the person holding onto their small area in this world.
Marines guard this area 24/7 and food is brought in cafeteria style, feeding people out of vats and buckets as they line up with their plates. One area has been tarped off to the side, that holds canvas showers and sinks. The 'Head' in this area has to be cleaned daily since it is a temporary military bathroom setup, due to there is no way to flush it out through pipes.

[Intercom] Tucana says, "*A raspy, panicked voice can be heard over the intercom*, "Security team to Starboard hangar bay. Security team to Starboard hangar bay." Some shouting and commotion can be heard in the background."

Clamping a helmet on, Demos checks her weapon and her cuffs, then heads for the Starboard hanger. On the way, she collects a riot shield, just in case. Slinging it onto her back to make it less bulky and easier to carry, she tucks a few smoke grenades into her toolbelt. Riot gear in place, she hits the stairs to doubletime it down to the hanger.

Some seriously unlucky MP's pulled the night shift on Civilian guard duty. It seems that the unfortunately-relocated natives to this area are restless. Quite restless, in fact. There's some shouting and milling around. A portly, middle-aged man in rumpled slacks and a button-down shirt that looks like it doesn't quite fit is holding a piece of paper as he talks angrily with the thick-necked Corporal Benjamin Moon. The bulletheaded marine doesn't look like he's having a good time as he talks to the man. Other civilians are in a state of similar discontent. The dark-skinned Lance Corporal Harlan Brenner paces around the perimiter of the refugee area, looking at once apologetic and exasperated, but less tense and angry than the other handful of MP's here. "Please. Ladies and gentlemen. The Fleet has your safety and well-being in mind. Please remain calm and do not jump to conclusions and we will get to the bottom of this!"

Meanwhile, a mousy-looking Ensign Daniel Meier, a little too old for his rank(but guess what, he's in the Support department!) stands by the phone as he looks towards the entrance to the hangar bay. He's clearly out of his league. "Thank the gods! We need more — they're up in arms!" He points excitedly to the crowd.

Security teams in the cargo bay can't be a good thing, and given the airlock incident, it could end /very/ badly. Krysesi is in sickbay when the call goes out, and grabs a Corp pack, throwing it over her shoulder with a curse as she sprints for the stairwell.

Pvt Trista, probably the youngest marine on the boat, catches the call just as she's about go go off rotation. Of all the luck! Already suited for a patrol, a mainstay of life as a marine aboard the vessel, Silas is pretty quick to arrive on the scene with the other responders. Green marine, comin' thru!

Swinging into the hangar, Demos slows her approach. Leaving the shield on her back, she walks a bit more slowly toward the Marine MP speaking to the civilian. She smiles at the man, "Sir," then nods to the MP. "Corporal. What is going on, please?"

Krysesi comes down the stairs and into the hangar bay, staying out of the way for now, but on hand in case violence happens.

Sergeant Galyian isn't far behind, Entering the hangar with the pose and posture of a man bitter about being called from… whatever it was he was doing. Demos gets the lead as he watches the general unrest with a weary sigh. What? If it goes pear-shaped, he can now pass the blame.

More Marines added to the mix doesn't exactly make the civilian crowd look happy. "Here they come! Shut the frak up, Anya before they come after us next!" Comes a shout. "So they can take us away? You read it, they want to use us as cannon fodder!" A reply. More shouting. More murmuring too. The crowd is pretty much like a sea before a storm, the occasional wave rising above the tinkles of the water. Every now and then a non-combatant is sitting down, minding his or her own business but the vast majority of them are stirred up.

Meanwhile, the MPs already present are tense. They haven't reached for their weapons yet, but each and every one seems on edge to varying degrees. The dark-skinned Gemenese Lance Corporal who was pleading with the crowd does, even. His tension seems more plaintive and less combatant, though. At Demos' approach, the other Marine, Corporal Moon turns about in a quick whirl and eyes the arriving members of the security team and salutes, turning his back momentarily on the arguing civilian. "Sir." He eyes Arkat, Silas, Krysesi and the rest with a nod of his head but answers the question. "They're — upset." Moon says, haplessly. It's probably an understatement to say that this isn't what he signed up for.

"Upset? Of course we're upset!" Look at this!" The man in the rumpled clothes frowns as he holds aloft the worn sheet of paper, containing, well, it has been making rounds. It's a 'call to arms.' Signed, one 'Virtus of Kobol.' "We aren't trained for this, and you people are going to frakkin' start to dragoon us!"

(EDITOR'S NOTE: For convenience, this is the rather-benign text of the memo in question. Seems harmless - doesn't it?)

Forty years ago, the Cylons made a critical error.

When they came online, they found twelve worlds at each other's throats. They saw a people bound by common history, religion, and culture, but who concerned themselves with petty grievances. They saw twelve worlds that, if not for the threat posed by the other eleven, would still be squabbling over continents and cities. After all, we are only human. Conflict is in our nature.

The Cylons gave these twelve worlds a cause. An enemy greater than each other. A reason to stand shoulder to shoulder with their fellow man, no matter his colony, or which God he prayed to. As humans do, we adapted. Overcame. Survived. As we shall survive these dark days.

Our enemy has not changed. Again the very existence of the human race is at stake. Again we must stand with our brothers and sisters and resist this menace until our dying breaths.

The men and women of the Cerberus, Corsair, and Praetorian swore an oath to defend us; to spend long months without sweet air and sunshine, years without the comfort of family. They took to space to ensure that we could live in peace, blissfully unaware of its cost.

That peace is shattered - a memory of what once was. However we identified ourselves a month ago - doctor, farmer, machinist, Caprican, Aerilan, Taurian - today we are human. This fleet is now our home.

The brave souls who crew these ships fight now just for the chance at another tomorrow, and not one of us can claim ignorance of the cost. Where once a gallant few defended the many, now we must all look within ourselves for that spirit. There are no reinforcements coming, no transfers, no replacements. This fleet needs every pair of hands at work, all eyes scanning the horizon for danger.

Each and every Cylon is focused only on our destruction - so too must we regain the unity of purpose that served us forty years ago. Each of us has a choice to make. We can wait and see what happens - we can hope and pray. Or we can don the Colonial uniform and stand with our brothers and sisters against the monsters that lurk in the deep.

In my eyes, the choice is clear.

Virtus of Kobol

Krysesi rolls her eyes at the people whining about being drafted. Bunch of ungrateful frakking whiners, if someone asked her. The ship /could/ have just left them all on the anchorage.

Silas' dark eyes flick to Demos, and she keeps her rifle on her shoulder. Her eyes go to the paper, which she may have seen earlier. She squints a little, marine brain running to try to dredge up the text, and what in it could make the civvies react in such a way. Or she's gassy. Hard to say for sure.

Demos reaches out with one hand toward the person flailing the pamphlet, her fingers closing on it as she speaks, "May I? Thank you." Smoothing it a bit, she reads it slowly, eyes widening slowly. When she finishes, she draws in a slow breath and releases it. Slowly, she nods, realization dawning. Turning to the Marines behind her, she speaks with quiet authority, "Stand down. Secure the hatch, but keep your weapons secured." Then, she turns to the man, "Sir. If I may?" With a shrug, she shifts her riot shield from her back and places it on the floor. Then, deliberately, she takes her helmet off and sets it on the ground at her feet. Rising, she extends a hand toward the man though does not touch him without permission. Her voice is pitched to carry, "Oh, sir. I am so glad you brought your concerns to our attention. This document? It was written in the hope that people, civilian and marine alike would see that our position out here in space is a precarious one. It's intent was to inspire trust between the military and the civilians. We must work together, you see. It does not mean that the draft will be instituted. It is simply asking for each group to help the other." She walks, holding the man's arm, a bit into the crowd, "It explains the bravery of humans and states that the Cylons are right to fear us, for together we are mighty. That is all. No one is going to be drafted, though anyone who is interested in helping would be immensely welcome."

Whether or not the shotgun slung over his shoulder happens to be loaded with baton rounds or buckshot is for Arkat to know, and over-eager civs to find out. It sure doesn't have the orange marker. Standing about a foot to the side of Silas, he scans the crowd for faces and anxiety, only occasionally glancing to the speech-giving Demos once or twice. It's hard to look non-imposing with a firearm, but damnit, he's trying!

"It's just askin' for frakkin' volunteers, Sergeant," The exasperated Corporal pipes up, looking in askance at Demos. "You've seen it." He adds, to Silas. As a pair of Marines shuffle off to fulfill Demos' command, he turns back towards the crowd. "It's harmless. They just need to step up and —" Lance Corporal Brenner bounds over and cuts in at this point, saying, softly, "Man, they're just scared, Moonie. Can't you see that?" He gestures towards a random refugee with a lazy point, not even looking at who he's indicating. "They lost people. They lost everyone. We lost everyone too. Now all we got is — us."

He too looks at Demos, as does the bald civilian. "Jamie over there just said they're preparing to press us into service. We — we're not made for this, Sergeant." If nothing else, Demos' presence seems to be calming the man down a bit, however slightly as he makes his case. "He said a couple guards were talking about 'hauling us in' this morning."

"Of course they're hauling us in!" A woman's voice yells out a few rows back, she can be made out as she points at Arkat and Silas now. "Look, they're here right now! Look at him! Remember HIM?!" Ok, the point was more at Arkat. Another voice joins in. Saggitaron-accented. "It's just like the Occupation! They only wanted our resources! We're just cubits to them! Zarek was right!"

Another hand in the crowd moves and chucks a shoe at Arkat and Silas' general direction. Uh oh. (Editor's note - it was a sensible brown oxford. I think you have too many shoes.)

Demos listens to the Corporal, "Oh, I know that." Turning to the crowd in general, she shakes her head, "Oh, we are not going to press anyone into service. I promise. If something like that was going to happen, there would be a lot of talk first. You might not know how the brass works, sir, but it is a lot like any political organization. Talk, then talks, then more talk." She pauses as the shoe is thrown. Irritation flashes over her features and she turns to the Corporal, "Get me a bull horn, please." Turning, she checks the Marines behind her. "Everyone okay? Step back. Back to the wall. Weapons down. Now." She points to Arkat and Silas, "You two. Come here, please. Leave your weapons down."

Silas glances up as the crow really starts to get personal. She glances from Arkat to the excitables, glancing back just a shoe arcs their way. It's but a simple step that takes her out of the somewhat shoddy trajectory, sending the footwear thunking to the deck. "At least it wasn't flammable," she comments under her breath. A look is cast to Demos, but the little marine doesn't get excited about crappy taste in loafers. She approaches the MP, rifle still slung over her shoulder. "Sarge." She nods, one eye on the crowd in case anything less sensible is chucked in her direction. The dark eyed private remains outwardly calm, though a muscle in her her jaw twitches at the mention of Zarek.

Arkat's looking like he's about to yell something back when he's suddenly having to lean out of the way from a shoe with a suprising amount of haste. The guy really flung it.. To his credit, and against everything his brain is telling him… the shotgun stays down. It's likely he's going to chip a tooth with the tension running through his jaw, but as this is a police issue, he has to obey the other Sarge. So he does, keeping his focus on the direction of the Saggitaron-accented calls. Habit. Silas just gets a little "I know. They're slacking." at her mention of flammability before Demos gets her "Sergeant."

The shoe does indeed skitter across the deck as it misses both marines. It lets out a loud 'THUMP' as it bounces lightly and taps the cowering Ensign who called them down there in the shin. "Ow!" he exclaims, in a voice that just turns the whole situation comical. His voice is a bit shrill.

The Corporal at attention's jaw twitches at the voice in the crowd. "Frakkin' /terrorist/ shit. Now we gotta deal with this, Sarge." He looks back at the crowd one moment and then turns again to go fulfill Demos' request.

Speaking of comical, the whole thing took a turn that way for a moment, but there's a bit of a stir near that that same Saggitaron-accented voice as another MP starts to push his way into the crowd. "Zarek?" The weathered-looking man with a scar on his cheek calls out. His weapon is down but his cheeks are ruddy and he closes in on the Saggitaron man, who responds calls out, "Zarek was right! Forty years. The Cylons killed us, Murderers. Then you're here to finish the job!"

Just then, the marine snaps. "You don't frakkin' KNOW ANYTHING about that." He yells, swinging at the man, hitting him square in the jaw. And he goes down.

And then there's screaming. All the while, the more cool-headed Lance Corporal, the Gemenese one calls out, "Marks! Get your head out of your ass!"

Demos nods, "Thanks. It is going to be very difficult to get everyone to hear us and unless we can catch their attention the tension will probably build. I want you both with me." Her gaze focuses on Arkat, "Sergeant. Tell me what you said that they might have overheard, please." As she speaks, she begins to move to the communication's station. Her gaze lifts and she smiles at the bald man, "Sir. Please calm your neighbors. I mean to talk to them, but am not loud enough on my own to do so." Turning, she catches Marks' movement, the anger, resentment and temper flaring. "Frak." Turning back to Arkat and Silas, she sighs, "Belay that. Get that asshole of an MP out of there. Do not shoot the civilians. Arrest Marks' on my order." She nods to them, then sprints to the com and turns it to broadcast, letting the squeel of feedback preceed her words. "Attention! Everyone, please give me your attention. Calm down and listen."

Silas glances briefly bad at the Ensign's antics, though she doesn't say anything about it in range of people who outrank her. It's clear from the look that the little Saggie doesn't think too highly of the outburst. Her eyes snap to the marine who loses his cool as the scuffle breaks out. The tension sings across the private's shoulders, but otherwise she appears thoroughly in control of herself. At the order to drag the MP out, she smiles. "Sarge." Can you titty twister dumbasses through armor if your hands and arms are slim enough? Let's find out. She advances to retrieve the man.

"Demos." You can tell when Arkat isn't impressed. It's when he stops using ranks. Also his face. His face is not impressed. Apparently the MPs aren't filling him with confidence. Saying that, he follows the command, chewing lightly on the inside of his jaw as he enters the crowd behind Silas, double-checking the trigger lock on his weapon is engaged in case of grabby hands.

"Oh, my God help me." Calls out an exasperated-sounding Lance Corporal Brenner as he stands towards the edge, just as the other two Marines make their way through the crowd. Or try to, in Silas' case as she takes a surprisingly well-placed fist which sends her flying back into a rather tall woman. "HEY! WATCH IT!" And shoves her forward. After she yells, rather shrillly.

Meanwhile, Arkat manages to get a hand on Marks, and after some protracted grappling, he's caught by surprise and restrained. The Saggitaron man isn't stupid, and sees that his assailant is being pulled away. He dazedly wipes some blood off his mouth and scrambles to his feet. This isn't a full-on brawl yet but it's on-edge.

Meanwhile, another Marine starts to charge past Demos. "Ugh." Just then, the gentle-voiced Brenner grabs the man by the shoulder and the two of them start a little tug of war. "Sarge!"

Marko arrives from the Dual Stairway.
Marko has arrived.

The petite private goes tripping into the lady, with a massive fail at marine prowess, after she's popped by a fist from nowhere. Silas grunts as she's shoved off, and just manages to tuck, but fails the roll. She slams into the deck with a clatter of her rifle hitting as well. It manages to stay latched to her shoulder, thanks to the strap. "Jendeh, keer bokhor!" There's a pause and then a growl of, "Vaysa!" from the dark little marine. Hopefully no boots will be incoming to ribs as Silas scrambles to right her small frame.

With the mic on to broadcast, Demos pulls her gun. The safety remains on, but she reaches over to press it against the temple of the MP trying to muscle past Brenner. Her tone is firm, unshaken, "That is /enough/, McFaden. Stand down. You are under arrest." Tilting her head to one side, she speaks into the mic, "Any Marine who moves into the civilians will be arrested." Her tone stays calm, though her eyes snap with anger, "Now. You are all reasonable, intelligent people. Please calm down. I am here to talk, so /talk/. Someone help that Marine up." The calm remains, "Get McFaden and that other MP to the brig, please, Brenner."

'Protracted Grappling' may include an elbow to the face and a shove to an MP actually carrying some handcuffs, but Arkat kinda gets the job done. The Saggitaron man on the receiving end of an angry MP gets a little nod with a grunted check if he's alright with a quick "Baleh?" Hell yeah, social prowess. Silas is next on the list of things to sort out, giving a few sharp "Outta the way!"s intermingled with a "Trista!" to go help the Private, nudging his way through the crowd.

Marko takes a wrong turn and winds up in the middle what appears to be 'Wave Guns Around and Act Crazy' day. "The frak's going on?" he calls to no-one in particular, stepping into the bay and carefully noting who's armed and who isn't.

In the commotion, there's another voice. Another one of the Saggitarons, a small, older lady (the perceptive would have noted she was one of the cleaning women aboard the Anchorage) edges in and sticks a hand out through two people towards Silas, apparently offering it in assistance. "Behbakshid." She calls out, calmly, looking at the civilians around her.

On the other Saggitaron front, the man with the mouth just glares in shock at the man who punched him, but, as he makes it to his feet and dabs at his mouth, he just nods at Arkat. He's /that/ kind of Sag, deep down. A pacifist, it would seem, for all the ire in his voice earlier. "Th - thank you." Marks gets shuffled off to another MP and is probably going for a fun ride to the brig.

Finally, given the /authoritative/ presence of Demos, the ever-helpful Brenner has an arm on McFaden and the other man goes still, glaring once at the crowd before lowering his head in submission. "Yes. Sir." He says, sullenly. Brenner adds, "Now, we're gonna do this /calm/, man. Just take a walk with me. We're gonna be cool. You didn't do anything really, so you'll be out in no time. Then we'll crack open a Blue Bull Light on the observation deck once you're out. It's on me." He glances a little towards Demos, giving her a nervous, but surprisingly pleasant smirk.

Oh, btw? Marko just walked into a shitstorm. There are also a couple marines at attention on either side of the hatch, looking at him in askance. "Uh. Sir." One just says, before glancing at the commotion between Marines and civilians.
In addition, there's a cowering Personnel Ensign in duty Blues doing nothing. Except cowering.

"Man khoobam, Mamnoon," Silas murmurs, a good deal more quietly as she's offered a hand up from the floor. She does, however, take the offered hand, though gets up mostly under her own power. She clears her throat, though it's likely missed by all but those closest to her, and a faint blush flares, then fades across her cheeks. Dark strands of hair fall into her eyes, under her helmet, but the young marine doesn't brush them away. She sets her jaw, and nods again to the woman who offered her help. "Bedrood," is spoken quietly, then she turns to make her way back through the civvies toward the marines. One hand retains a death grip on the rifle strap at her shoulder, though the weapon is held down. "Everybody in here needs a frakkin' hug," she finally says, shaking off the other language like an old persona revisited and found ill fitting.

When Brenner hustles McFaden off, Demos nods, "Thank you, Corporal." She holsters her pistol, then looks again to the crowd. Leaning in to the mic, she keeps an eye on Arkat's progress toward Silas and the other MPs who have the first fellow. When she sees Silas standing, she smiles with quick relief. Speaking then, she lifts both hands, palms up, "Alright. To answer the question of being pressed into the military. It is not going to happen. The brass have said that /if/ anyone has skills or time to offer, the help would be greatly appreciated. If no one has any desire to assist, that is the way it goes. Now. If there are questions, I would be glad to attempt an answer. If I do not have the answers, I will personally track them down and bring them to you."

Silas being helped was a suprise, but not one that Arkat is going to argue about as he meanders through the crowd, keeping enough distance so they won't both be taken down in the event of another outburst. There are plenty of "'scuse me"'s and "Thank you"'s as he goes, forearm following the line of his slung shotgun all the way for protection. Even when both he and the Private are clear of the crowd, he keeps on scanning those faces while Demos busts out the diplomacy. Silas gets a head tilt in her direction. "Y'alright?"

Marko hangs back for a moment to try and get some assessment of the situation beyond 'Some kind of shit storm' before spotting Demos and making his way towards her. "Sarge.. eh…What in the hell is going on in here?" he asks simply, looking on as the Marine is escorted to the Brig. "I mean, I know we could all stand some entertainment." he adds, then gestures to Silas and everyone else. "Don't you think this is taking things a little bit _too_ far?"

The little woman just nods calmly and gently, untouched by the brief flash of chaos as she flashes a tea-stained smile at Silas before drifting her way into the crowd. The moral of the story? Cleaning lady sees the worst ever and doesn't flinch. Even the end of the world didn't seem to change that, in her case.

"Not a thing, Sir." Brenner says smoothly towards Demos as he frogmarches McFaden to the exit at a rather calm pace, turning back over his shoulder briefly as he hesitates at the hatch to look back into the crowd. One paying attention that there's a slight-built woman, twentysomething, that he looks at, who looks right back at him in turn. The gaze is held there for a second and then the two of them continue on their way, along with the MP hauling Marks off. The perps are gone tonight. Meanwhile, the original head speaker looks at Demos, cowed for now. Shaken, but apparently grateful. "Can you — watch over us, Marine?" He asks, platinively. If vaguely.

A couple people give Arkat a /wide/ berth still, for whatever reason. The bloody-mouthed man has receded into the crowd now - one of the more helpful marines has given him a cloth to dab his mouth and is peering at the ouchie.

Finally, Marko's question is addressed by the Ensign. "Um, well. It just got out of hand, you see. The MP's, they — handled it." He stammers some.

Demos draws a slow breath, but does not answer Marko yet. She focuses on the bald man, "Of course. It is our sworn duty, sir and one everyone in the fleet takes very seriously. It is just… easier… when we are all working together instead of pulling apart. Will you please have people send queries to the QUODEL? They can get answers for you as well as I can. Oh… I will send a request for one of the doctors or medics to come down and see to the gentleman's injury." The com unit is turned off and she extends a hand to the man. If the accepts, the shake will be quick before she turns to Marko but something catches her attention over his shoulder. She looks between Brenner and the woman in the crowd and when she speaks to Marko, her tone is faintly distracted, "Petty Officer 1st? What is your name, please?"

(Editor's note: And from here, the situation is defused. If anyone has an addendum they are welcome to post.)

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