PHD #097: Good People
Good People
Summary: Colonel Pewter arrives.
Date: 3 Jun 2041 AE
Related Logs: The Public Weal and Rex Mortuus Est.
Pewter Cidra 
Naval Offices — Deck 10 — Battlestar Cerberus
This area is set-up much like any standard office building. Cubicles have been constructed using cheap waist-high walls, their contents left neutral for whoever needs to use them. Inside each cubicle is a desk with a laptop and chair. Simple overhead lights bring dull illumination to the room except over the back wall where each one of the colonies twelve flags hangs from its own pole. Fake, potted plants dot the room and seem to be standard issue along with the water cooler and coffee machines. Off the main room are a few private offices such as that of the JAG or CAG.
Post-Holocaust Day: #97

The previous night was one of utter chaos, with the taking of the admiral in the chapel and subsequent delivery of the commander from the Corsair to the ship. After seeing that his transport was properly affected, Cidra spent a good deal of that night hovering near Sickbay. She's back on duty as the next day winds into second shift, however. In her duty blues, the hatch to her office slightly ajar. It generally is when the CAG is inside. A subtle invitation should anyone drop by. She is not sitting at her desk at the moment, but walking the length of the tiny space. One might call it pacing, though her stride is carefully slow. Cigarette between her fingers, on which she takes frequent puffs. She waits. She'd requested a proper meeting with this Pewter fellow as soon as he had a free moment. If anyone really has that right now.

Pewter hasn't had many free moments and likely won't have free moments for a while, given the magnitude of the task that has now descended upon his shoulders. The forty-eight-year-old hasn't slept a wink since arriving aboard Cerberus, and, having dispensed with the pomp and circumstance that would typically be granted to a ship's new commander, promptly set about to work. So it is, then, that he enters Cidra's office with a stack of intelligence reports tucked beneath his arm, all of which bear the seal of the Colonial Marine Corps.

"Bad, Toast," he begins without preamble, that impossibly-deep voice of his setting the lampshades a-rattle. "No ifs, ands, or buts 'bout it, Toast. Known him for six years, you know, Abbot I mean, six years. So I couldn't believe my eyes when Laffo brought over that intel." Laughlin, Praetorian CO. "So now y'all got the admiral sawin' logs in the cooler after knockin' him flatter than a pancake and this old dog walkin' 'bout in his stockins." His broad, tired smile is nevertheless kind, almost avuncular. "So. Can't say it's good to meet y'all like this, but. Good to meet y'all."

Cidra comes to a stop and pivots on her heel. Cigarette hastily deposited in an ashtray on her desk. Posture straightens, arm comes up in a fluid salute. The whole dance is automatic for her after fifteen-plus years in the service. "Commander. I am most aggrieved of the circumstances that bring you here as well." The smile seems to surprise her. It's not returned just yet. But she doesn't have the air of one who smiles easily. "It is nonetheless my pleasure, sir." Manners studiously polite in a way far deeper ingrained than OCS can manage.

"Colonel, Toast, Colonel." Forget the salute — down he goes into a chair like a massive and unyielding rock, his stack of intel reports set down beside him so he can place both his bulging fists on the edge of her table. "So I've seen y'all's numbers. Saw y'all's numbers right when I got aboard your flight deck and y'all's pilot turns to me and says 'Colonel, sir, I'm glad you're aboard my Raptor.' And so I ask y'all's pilot 'Why, Lieutenant, are you glad I'm aboard your Raptor?' And y'all's pilot says 'Because last time we did one of these there was a bomb on one.' Cheeky snake." A deep, pulsing laugh that sends more vibrations through the room. "Woulda whupped up on y'all's pilot if he wasn't so flat-cold good. But — " Fists clench tighter as he jerks his head to the other side of the table. Sit. "Y'all wanted me in here, so I assume it isn't cause of y'all's numbers."

"Of course. Colonel. I do apologize." Cidra goes to sit behind her desk once he's down, legs crossing. She eyes the cigarette for a beat, then puts it out. Carefully. There's still smoking one could do on that one. A small nod at his tale about her Raptors, though there's no smile from her at it. "Yes. I would like to you know your intentions, sir. In regard to the ship, and Major Tillman. And myself, for that matter."

"Bad, Toast." Pewter pauses for her to ash those cigarettes, questing eyes seeking hers and holding that gaze for a full five seconds — if she doesn't blink first. "Bad," he continues. "Rip-roarin' in the corridors with grenades, Toast, grenades. Those four Marines, they knew right well how to fire up the searchin' soul, killin' themselves like that." Though the garrulous man doesn't seem to need much time to put together his thoughts, each word is nevertheless enunciated with remarkable precision. "Colder than a welldigger's ass in a March wind. And if y'all's ship starts tearin' apart — " One meaty fist thuds down against the desk, and that, really, is all he needs to say. "So. General amnesty. Cause if I go round handin' out treason indictments to y'all like candy from the back of some creepy guy's truck, I have a crew of one."

Cidra meets Pewter's eyes without hesitation. She's one for eye contact in general. She only bows her head when the four fallen Marines are mentioned, murmuring something beneath her breath in a language that is definitely not Colonial Standard. It sounds rather like a benediction. She raises her chin again and in proper Standard adds, "I pray the gods' find some way to visit grace upon their souls. Even dark as things have gotten, I did not think I would see it. Our weapons turned on each other, rather than the Cylons." A nod at that last. No sign of relief about her. She just takes it as it comes. "For Lieutenant Rime as well, I trust? Major Tillman wanted to have charges brought to her. I did not think it right."

"Major Tillman — " There's a brief hitch in Pewter's sonorous voice as he sits back in his chair, which creaks plaintively when subjected to his full and not inconsiderable weight. "Major Tillman was jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs, last night, slingin' charges round like that. He's a good man, she's a good woman, you're — " A roguish twinkle lights his squinting eyes. "Can't tell, yet, but you're good, and. Hell." Eyes drift closed as his fists relax for a brief moment of reflection that passes in a half-second. "I didn't want to take y'all's ship at all until Laffo started talkin' 'bout fillin' me full of his missiles, so I think that makes me a nip closer to 'good' — least in my book, it does."

"We shall see what I am, I do suppose," Cidra murmurs, eyes still on the colonel. Brows arch a little as he studies her. Studying him back. Her eyes do not waver, but she has an air rather like a mirror. She strives to see in others while reflecting little of herself. Though that air is frayed now. She is most tired. "I for one was grateful you were called in, sir. I do think most of the senior staff was. None of us could take command. Not as matters stood. Not with what we had done."

"Y'alls did," says Pewter, voice dropping to a register even deeper than usual, "what y'alls did." Pushing himself to his feet, he grabs the stack of reports from beside him while trying to stifle his yawn. "Ain't my place to judge. Gods don't need this ol' yeller — " Drawled out, as if to exaggerate his accent. His version of self-deprecation, apparently. "Don't need me to carry y'alls where y'alls deserve to go. And if y'alls need more comfort than that, well." Dark eyes lock onto hers with mildness that belies the seriousness of his gaze. "Y'alls might've wanted to think 'bout that before. Hm?" And with one last gentle smile, he's moving for the hatch.

"The gods can judge me as they will, Colonel, for this and a various of other sins. I shall face up to them when the time comes," Cidra replies. No comfort is sought from her. Not that she seems particularly serene about whatever may come of her encounter with the Lords of day. She rises as he goes. Saluting him in parting, called for or not.

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