PHD #275: Keep Your Eyes Peeled
Keep Your Eyes Peeled
Summary: PO3 Paul McManus arrives at Taeryth Concrete Plant tired, hungry, thirsty, and quite possibly delusional and paranoid. Also, he is not a raccoon.
Date: 28 Nov 2041 AE
Related Logs: n/a
Leyla McManus Trask 
Taeryth Concrete Plant - Grounds - Tauron
The yard is large enough for more than a couple Raptors and Vipers to land comfortably, and surrounded on all sides by either buildings or a tall chain-link fence topped with loops of rusting razor wire. Concrete pavement extends from the gate to the warehouse entrance, cracked and crumbling in places, split by tufts of dry grass. The rest of the space is packed dirt and scattered gravel, with chunks of cement spattered here and there. Wheelbarrows, spades, and various odds and ends of equipment sit about the yard, all broken down and rusted out. One whole side of the yard is bordered by the enormous main warehouse, and a path along the side of it leads to the loading dock.
Post-Holocaust Day: #275

"For frak's sake. How much longer is it gonna take 'em to load up so we can move out?" Bootstrap lounges outside of a Raptor, leaning against its frame. Judging by the state of the cigarette he's smoking, he's been waiting quite a while.

"I think they're hoping if they stick around long enough, something besides a rat or a raccoon will pop out of the woodwork and present itself for the dinner table." That from the woman, flight suited and all, standing not far from where Boots has situated himself. For her part, Sweet Pea isn't smoking, but she is gnawing on a bit of jerky to pass the time. "I'm actually hoping for more raccoon."

And, to be fair, there are animals in the undergrowth. Mostly raccoons and rats, it's true, but the occasional larger predator rustles the dry grass. As if on cue, in fact, the grass does indeed give a faint rustle. Could be an animal, could just be the wind.

<FS3> Trask rolls Alertness: Good Success.

McManus pages: Probably not an animal, no. Probably a guy. Covered in grass and camo'd up.

Usually somewhat laissez-fair, today is evidently not business as usual for Trask. There's a restlessness about him that goes beyond the acting-out he tends to do when bored. Consistently, those big brown eyes of his flick in one direction with increasing annoyance. "Call me cosmopolitan, but I'll stick to roasted cockroach," he remarks, puffing some more. Still not seeing those they are waiting for, the ECO turns his head and stares at the barren landscape through the chain links of the fence. "What the…?" Something appears to have caught his attention. The Picon Five-seveN is reflexively reached for, but not too quickly. "I think someone is seriously wanting to catch some raccoon."

"I never liked cockroach. The guts are too much like marshmallow, even when they're well roasted." She's just putting that out there, eyes scanning for sign of the returning team. Her first response to Kal's heads up? "Always when I'm eating." But despite the protest of disgust, the jerky is tucked away before Leyla stands upright, reaching for her sidearm as well, moving to take a position beside Boots, slightly defensive. She might be the pilot, but he's the SL. She also looks in the direction he is, trying to piece together what's caught his attention.

The rustling stops dead. Whatever animal it might have been is clearly not moving any further for a moment, but after perhaps twenty seconds, the well concealed shape of a grubby, bearded man, with grass taped to him and his backpack to disguise his outline, rises slowly to a squat, hands lifting in a surrender motion.

"That ain't no raccoon," Kal quips before calling out, "Remain where you are, hands up!" The heavy pistol is now out of the holster and aimed in the direction of new arrival. "Identify yourself!"

This is loud enough to draw the attention of one of the marines on-patrol, who commences doing whatever it is marines do in a situation like this. Part of which involves an assault rifle.

Leyla is certainly no marine, but she didn't get this far without knowing how to use a weapon. As Kal lifts his weapon, she follows suit, moving to bracket the figure now rising out of the grass. There's no open hostility on her face, but her expression is fixed, focused. And when she speaks, on the off-chance that the man might be a bit more recalcitrant… and Taurian, she repeats Kal's words, in her native Taurian dialect.

The hands lift higher, right enough, although the man in question does give a careful look back over his shoulder before fully straightening. He begins to speak, voice cracking, then clears his throat and tries again. "Pe… ahem… Petty Officer 3rd Class McManus. CEC Marsyas," he provides after a moment. "What ship, sir?"

At this point in the game, it's not as though giving away the ship's name constitutes a security breach, so Bootstrap calls back out, "Battlestar Cerberus of battle group One-Three-Two!" The weapon remains leveled but his stance is that of a security precaution and not that of someone trigger-happy. "Now, P-O Three McManus, if you'd be so kind as to go with the good Corporal over there," the one advancing with the assault rifle who's called for back-up, "he'll make sure you'll have the opportunity to prove you are who you say you are!"

"Corporal, radio in for a full fireteam." No, Leyla didn't miss the fact that the man looked behind him when he got up to his feet, "Who else is with you, PO3?" She's still got her sidearm trained on the camouflaged man, but she's dividing her attention between him and the seemingly empty field behind him.

"Way ahead of you, sir," relays said Corporal.

McManus wipes his face with the back of one shaky hand before returning it to the air with the other, giving a slow nod, and moving towards the marine as requested. "With luck, sir, nobody," he tells Leyla. "I haven't seen one of the machines for the last ten klicks or so, and haven't seen one of the clones in maybe twenty?" Tactical advice out of the way, he can't help himself but to ask, "Got any food?"

The Corporal does his job, which means waiting for back-up so McManus can be frisked.

"MREs, primarily," the SL says, advancing a bit, so as to have a better shot should some worst case scenario transpire. The PO3 is a beefy guy, after all. Also: could be a skinjob and they're hella strong. "Might be some raccoon," he adds, "in case that's your thing." That may or may not be a joke. "Ten clicks ain't far at all. How long ago did you see 'em?"

Where Boots goes, Sweet Pea goes. Such is the onus of the pilot/ECO relationship. While the Corporal waits for his marines to gather, she continues to keep her eyes focused on the 'PO3'. "Don't worry, once you're secured, I'm sure that they'll feed you. But you have to understand it might be a bit of a wait."

"Just before noon," McManus guesses, gritting his teeth as he slowly lowers one hand to his neck, pulling out his dogtags into sight. "Can you spare any food? Energy tabs? Biscuits?" Even the words have him salivating, and he swallows, moistening his lips.

If his expression is any indication, Trask was expecting time measured in days or weeks — not hours ago. A sidelong glance is cast at Leyla, as if to say 'you have gotta be kidding me'.

Evidently, he's not the only one feeling that way. The Corporal radios it in as one of his compatriots give McManus a thorough pat-down. "This is all he has, Corporal," the Lance Corporal relays, confiscating a penknife.

"Well, I bloody well hope your sense of time is frakked-up from hunger, thirst, and exhaustion," the Harriers' SL finally speaks up about the proximity of Centurions, "but, yeah. They'll see to it that you get plenty to eat an' drink at processing." Which is where the marines are starting to lead McManus.

Boots' glance is returned, along with a nod, "I'll get the wing scrambling to do more sweeps." It's unlikely, that if the cylons are this close, that they've missed the fact that there are colonials on the ground. With the Marines arriving, Leyla takes a few steps back, closer to her raptor. A suddenly slow day has just gotten a whole heck of a lot busier.

"Keep your eyes peeled," McManus warns, looking over his shoulder once more as he follows the marines. "The machines are everywhere. We should get out of here."

The ECO is not a physician, so he's in no position to determine whether or not McManus is currently in his right mind. Nothing that some food, water, and rest can't possibly mend. Or not. "I'll be sure to pass the word, Pee-Oh," which Trask will, in one respect or another. And with the marines doing their part, he holsters his firearm.

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