| Inertia |
| Summary: | Demos' investigation of the storeroom fire hits an unexpected snag. |
| Date: | 13 Mar 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Swigertly Speaking |
| Players: |
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NAVY ENLISTED BERTHINGS — BATTLESTAR CERBERUS
The naval enlisted quarters are never quiet; rather, they operate along a continuum of Bustling on one hand to Slightly Less Bustling on the other. Tonight is one of the former nights. As Cerberus plots her next jump back to the debris field of Virgon, her crew is shuffling in and shuffling out without regard for the niceties of a normal sleep schedule. Managing the mess is a harried-looking petty officer calling out names from a list, dispatching his minions to various bunks to wake their occupants and roust them into teams. "Inventory!" he calls. "I need Daut, Baker, and Shrewsbury. Weps! That's Maybee, Gaulding, and, uh, Thorsen — oh, and get Heitz, too, while you're over there. Logistics — "
Stepping into the semi-ordered mayhem, Demos stepa out of the way of the door to keep from being bowled over by someone leaving or someone coming. She takes a moment to survey the area, then angles across to the man in charge, "Excuse me, Petty Officer. I am looking for Foster." Her tone is authoritative, though calm enough to be pleasent.
"Hold a moment, will you?" Not one for the niceties of rank, he, as he turns his baleful eye towards one particularly lazy pair of crewmen. "Hey! Heitz! Get your frakdamned ass out of bed and load up those guns, or the toasters'll be the last of your worries. Your buddy too — that's it, drop your dicks and get the frak out here — " Green eyes flick back down to the papers he's got in hand as he turns the page, running his grimy fingernails through his close-buzzed head. "Logistics — right, right, dead, dead, wounded, dead, — hey! Heitz? You frakkin' deaf? Out here. NOW."
Demos sighs, though it is soft. "Would you like me to give it a shot, PO?" There is a sparkle of mischief in the Marine's eyes. She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, at ease and not concerned with the niceties of rank either. What might the quiet MP have in mind to make her eyes light up so?
The man's green eyes flick over Demos' face before drifting down to her body, lingering there with vague interest before he returns his gaze to his sheet. "You're welcome to try," he grunts, "though you might want to get some surgery. Heitz doesn't go for your type, and by type I mean — "
"Only body Heitz wants is yours, PO!" pipes a snarky voice from somewhere behind a blue curtain.
"What Lutz said," says the PO, his long-suffering face breaking into a thin smile. "Anyway, you wanted a Foster? I've got something like fifty-seven Fosters, ten of whom got popped by the toasters. I tried telling this to Personnel but something like half of them got charbroiled on Picon, which means they're still sending me frakdamned outdated lists and — " The man breathes deeply. "Whoosah," he murmurs, clenching his toes. "Anyway. I'm Vincent. Josh Vincent, Petty Officer First Class, the most overworked son of a bitch this side of Uram." His gaze flickers back towards the woman's slender frame. "Didn't think I ordered a stripper in a policewoman costume. That was probably the perverts in Deck."
Demos clears her throat, trying not to blush and failing miserably. She inclines her head, "Thank you. Sergeant Phaedra Demos and I certainly do not intend attempting to cajole them." She does wink for the PO, then turns to face the bunks in question. Her manner shifts. She draws in a deep breath, then begins. Her voice hardens, increases in volume, though she is not shouting, "ALLRight, you maggots, GET your Frakin asses OUT of those BUNKS and do it YESTERDAY. DOUBLEtime it SOLDIER! MOVE MOVE MOVE!" She glances down, then inhales and begins once more, "HEITZ! YOU worthless, sonofabitch, if YOU are not out her dressed, pressed and ready to GO in 20 seconds, you'll owe me 50!" Maybe it is futile. But, how many soldiers really get over their gut wrenching reaction to the patented Drill Sergeant in full pissed off fury voice?
At that, Heitz double-times, pulling on a fresh pair of pink-and-tan boxers onto the ground before he struggles into his uniform. Meanwhile: "Hot damn," cackles Crewman Lutz. "Got yourself a screamer, PO, all like — " And then the man's doing his best to replicate what he imagines Demos' voice sounds like in another circumstance requiring screaming.
"I'm going to cut out his intestines," says Vincent conversationally, leaning against a bunk as he stares daggers into Lutz' drawn curtains. "Then I'm going to hang him from the rafters by his shit-stained esophagus."
"We don't have rafters," says Lutz between passionate falsetto screams, which cause more than a few scampering ratings to make their way to the other side of the room.
Vincent only sighs, shaking his head at the Marine. "Best ship in the Fleet and I get this frakking zoo." There's surpassing fondness in his tone, even if that fondness doesn't quite make it past the irritated expression on his face. "Least they're loose," he murmurs quietly. "Easy to get stir-crazy in here. Didn't hear shit from Command until we saw that little memo floating around. Lutz is from Aquaria."
Demos strides across the room to where Lutz' bunk is. She lifts a hand to hold a finger in front of her lips as she turns briefly to Vincent. Then, without warning, she reaches over and twitches Lutz' curtains open, "And if you say one more word, I will arrest you right here and now under a charge of harrassment. Copy?" She does not look at what he might be doing, but leaves his bunk open as she walks back to Vincent. At least Heitz is moving. When she gets back, she nods, "Sorry, Petty Officer Vincent. I am looking for Vivian Foster."
"Hades, woman. Get the frak off my ass," snaps Lutz, whipping the curtains shut. The threat of arrest doesn't seem to have perturbed him one whit, though his high-pitched laughter is more brittle than it's been. "Can't take a godsdamned joke — " The rest devolves into dark and incoherent muttering.
"I said he's from Aquaria," says Vincent again, his green eyes hard, his thin tenor steel. "You know, the Colony the Cylons did their best to wipe from the galaxy? The one that got bombed so bad they're not even setting up a guard to defend it? That one? He's an ass, no question, but you don't threaten my people. Are we clear, Sergeant?" Vincent doesn't pause to see whether he's made his point; instead, he flicks through his papers again, talking while he looks for the name in question. "Anyway — Vivian Foster. Pretty girl. We threw her a party a few weeks ago. Just got married, right? Or engaged? Or something. Personnel tell you she's still around here? Well, whaddya know." The stream-of-consciousness finally stops as he finds what he's seeking.
"There," he says, pushing the list Demos' way. "That's your problem: because she still shows up in the system despite getting nailed in the chest by an exploding bulkhead while we were leaving the Anchorage."
"According to the latest, the Cylons got every colony that way, PO." The news he gives her, however, is not what she hoped. "I see. That is a shame." After a moment, she adds, "I will need a copy of that report, please. And, if you would, include the names of anyone she hung with. I would appreciate it. Thank you for your time." Turning, she walks toward the hatch leading out. Before she leaves, Demos turns to glance back, "Oh, one more thing. I may tease on occasion. I may joke around. But, I never threaten. Ever. Are we clear on that?" Walking out, she turns and heads down the hall.
"Neither do I, Sergeant." Vincent grants her a toothy grin. "Anyway, I'll get somebody to throw it on your desk, and as for this — " He snatches the list back from the sergeant as he gives one last look to Lutz's bunk. Then, clearing his throat, he's snapping the pages back until he finds what he needs. "Logistics! I need five people to run down to the stores on C-Deck and I've got three. Volunteers! You won't get shit from me or anyone else except the satisfaction of a job well done, but all of you are so frakking incompetent you won't even be able to get that — so! Two sad sacks of shit to go with Toma, Outman, and Bissnet, calling once — "
And just like that, two apprentices poke their heads out of their bunks, still blinking sleep out of their eyes. "On it, PO," they murmur —
"Bless your sorry souls," says Vincent, grinning. "Right! Port Hangar Stores, three more — " And on and on he goes, deep into the night.