| Let Sleeping Pilots Lie |
| Summary: | MPs, COs and blood, oh my. |
| Date: | 2041.07.20 |
| Related Logs: | The Cylon Sleeps Tonight. |
| Players: |
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<Insert Officer's Brig @desc here.>
Announcement: Polaris shouts, "NOW HEAR THIS: MP squad seven to the brig, say again, MP squad seven to the Brig. This is an emergency."
Announcement: Polaris shouts, "And also, uh. Also a medic."
<OOC> Polaris says, "so here's the deal: y'all come in and see the bulletproof glass just a mess of cracks. It's been hit point blank by a lot of AP bullets that did … well, absolutely nothing. the 11 behind the glass is sleeping like a baby"
<OOC> Polaris says, "tisiphone is shot in the gut and the thigh and is bleeding out on the floor. Diesel, the shooter, is staring blankly forward, sitting down by the bulkhead. Sholty is next to him, gun trained on the pilot. Lunair is near Tis administering what medical care she can muster."
<OOC> Polaris says, "but all that is OOC"
<OOC> Polaris leaves it to Lunair to inform all y'all IC about what went down :)
Lunair is perched atop poor Diesel still. "S-sorry," She manages and climbs off him. Time to help deal with the Tisiphone. She's prefer the pilot not keep shooting, nor get shot. Her head is reeling. She's tending to poor Tis and keeping the pilot still with help as she can, although she's worried - it's apparent Lunair considers Tisiphone something of a friend. That's shoved out of her mind for now. Business. Business. Even Lunair is a Marine. She huffs. "None of you were shot?" She looks over those already gathered, purple eyes narrowed. Her voice is a bit sturdier, the quietly friendly and somewhat noble sort gone into a steady business tone. She is just- chaos. An anarchist would be proud of the scene, windows cracked, shells on the floor and blood all about.
She's a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl, Tisiphone is. Gutshot, thighshot — even Ares Himself might take a step back, craggy brows lifted, and issue a, 'Damn, girl.' Whatever gun she was firing — for she must have been the gunner, there's no other way to explain this scene — has long since been kicked away from her. Her head flops over to the side as pale fingers twitch at the floor, grabbing for the sidearm that's no longer there. "Kill it," she says through paling lips, to Lunair. It's barely audible in the chaos. "Please. Kill it."
Good thing the offices and sec hub aren't far from the brig, huh? Makes response to these alarms right quite fast. The first one through the hatch isn't an MP proper, but the Marine CO, entering the brig with sidearm already drawn. She sweeps the room horozontally and then focuses on the cracked glass. Strangely? Cylon prisoner is quite soundly asleep - it wasn't anything from her (its?) end, it would seem. Thump thump thump she goes, coming around to look at the bloodbath inside that cell. "What in the godsdamned hell just happened in my brig?" Madilyn calls out to the marines and pilot inside the cell, lowering her sidearm. "Get this pilot treated, now!"
Constin moves quickly into the brig, P-90 set to his shoulder and trained wherever his eyes turn as he scans the scene, barking to Madilyn's prompt, "Sir," slinging the CQB rifle, the sergeant steps and crouches near Tisiphone, on the side opposite Lunair. Tisiphone's pleading is answered by a curt, "Shut up, sir." Without looking back, he instructs, "Kincaid. On the wireless and get Lieutenant sophronia up here."
Kincaid also has his sidearm out — this is a first for the MP, the first time he's drawn his sidearm in something resembling anger. He comes through the hatch behind the Marine Commanding Officer, stepping in front of her to take something resembling point. He holsters his sidearm once he sees the situation is under control, heading for the com to page on up someone.
[Intercom] Kincaid says, "Pass the word. Lieutenant Sophronia to the brig. Lieutenant Sophronia to the brig."
"We're good," mutters Sholty, who with one last heavy breath pushes himself to his feet — his eyes never leaving the pilot's fallen body. Out goes his hand to help up his buddy, whose dark features have turned remarkably ashen — but maybe that's a trick of the light. "We're good, sir. Uh. We'll be out there when they're ready to take our statement." And slowly, ever so slowly, they're backing out of the room.
No banter ensues.
Lunair blinks at her CO. She yelled for a medic? What did she yell for? "I-" At Tis' plea, her expression is blank. Thankfully Constin comes to the rescue. None of her men seem to be bleeding horribly. There's a relief. Poor Diesel got tackled, but hey. At least Lunair's not super heavy. She rubs her temples a moment. "Sirs," She murmurs. A deep breath. "Long story short -" She starts. Hesitates. A nod as Sholty and Diesel as they go. She takes a deep breath. "I'm sure there's literally thousands of reasons, but Ensign Apostolos wanted to visit the Cylon. Nothing unusual there. Unfortunately, she had a gun and began to fire. Private Diesel shot her once, I tackled him so -" So Tis didn't get killed, "But a second shot hit her in the thigh and -" Whoa. Anyway. "Private Sholty was able to subdue the Ensign."
Tisiphone's head flops back over the other way, at the sound of Constin's request to Button It, Sir. Her pale eyes swim around before they focus on him. "Just," she whispers. "Kill it." Her lashes sink to half-mast and drag open again. Her hand comes up and touches her bloodsticky tanks. So much for 'been shot AT, but never INTO'. She liked that claim to fame. Of all the godsforsaken luck. "Please."
Kincaid steps away from the intercom now that the downed Lieutenant's squadleader has been paged. "Sirs," murmurs the Lance Corporal. "I'll head outside and start taking statements." It seems like the situation is secure here.
"I'm sorry ensign. Nobody's shooting any Cylons on my watch. Vigilante justice is strongly discouraged aboardship." Madilyn's pistol is safetied and put into the holster, kneeling down to get a closer look at the situation. It's been some time since she's had to exercise any first aid training. "Shot…twice. Gut. Thigh. Sergeant, apply pressure on the stomach wound as you're much larger. Knee into that thigh wound. I don't want her bleeding out. And godsdamnit, where are the medics?"
"Under control, sir," Constin returns to Madilyn's instructions with a curt nod, but he doesn't look away from his present task. "Lieutenant Lunair," he drawls curtly on, as Tis' open drab jacket is moved aside and bottom hem of the tank top pulled up to allow direct and more efficient pressure to be applied to the gut wound. "Once this pilot's Ess-Oh arrives, we are going to need charges filed. As the ranking officer at the time of the incident, can you-" the request is cut off as he swats aside Tis' feeble hands to keep the blood on the inside of the pilot as best he can. Which he manages to do with Good Success(tm).
Papers? Papers. Papers. Reminders of a more stable time. Constin gets a sidelong, blank stare. "Of course," She nods slowly. "I can." SHe takes a deep breath. Lunair looks a bit surprised, lost and thoughtful. "Just - glad no one else got hurt. Gonna have to fix that window though," A deep frown. Eventually she stands, almost an agonizing process like an origami crane unfolding bit by bite. She is very quiet, expression a steady, stately and withdrawn one.
Alessandra arrives from the Deck 6.
Alessandra has arrived.
After a brief detour to get her duty uniform tunic out of her locker, Allie comes in through the hatch while struggling with the upper half of her blues, her expression displeased. "What the hell…" she starts to say, wanting to figure out what is going on but that is pretty much not getting spoken once she sees the sight of Tisiphone and the general chaos surrounding her. "What. The FRAK! Is going on. HERE?!," she eventually manages to get out, the way her voice breaks in several places making her words come out halted and punctuated oddly. Faces are searched as she asks that, her own beet red.
Paff. Tisiphone's nerveless fingers are batted away. She was just trying to play Rock-Paper-Scissors with the Sergeant, honest. No, make that Man-Cylon-Gun.
Gun was supposed to beat Cylon. It's in the RULES.
"Hurts," she whispers to Constin, when the gutshot's pressed on — just in case you couldn't tell, you know, just being helpful — before she shudders and goes limp. Still breathing, heart still beating — and still failing to pump the rest of her blood out of the fresh holes punched through her.
Madilyn offers Lunair a little tug on the collar to help her stand up. "You're going to have to give an offical statement of course, Lieutenant. You'll need to be the one to press charges. I don't care how well-intentioned this pilot might think her actions were. Nobody attempts to murder prisoners in my brig." This is all said without regard to the squadron leader in the room. "Lieutenant Sophronia, it would seem one of your pilots felt it was her duty to terminate the life functions - or whatever obscure definition of life these machines possess - of this Cylon prisoner."
"Going into shock," Constin reports on Tisiphone's condition, loud and even. Seriously, the lengths to which Tisiphone will go to avoid giving the marine his promised hits of brandy are getting impressive. "Yeah, sir- gunshots tend to hurt," the sergeant returns tersely to the wounded pilot's complaint before she shudders and goes limp. "Heart-rate is still stable. Where the frak're those medics?" the big man barks aloud, narrow blue stare still fixed on the bloody business of Tisiphone before him. the compress on her gut wound is leaned on, while the big man's jump knife is drawn and put to use to cut open the leg of her duty fatigues, to get at the thigh wound.
Lunair will help keep Tisiphone steady. There's a kind of sadness beneath that solemn, sturdy expression. Good bearing or not, it is hard to hide just this once. She blinks at the tug on her collar. Poor Tisiphone. She's not unsympathetic but on the other hand, every rule she knows is crying out in rage. Stupid internal conflict. Why can't she solve her problems with punches? Sigh. She pauses. She doesn't protest her CO's recommendation, but there's a deeply written guilt etched across her face. All she manages is a soft, "I'm sorry." That's all, and even those words seem to be as wrong as milk spilled onto a temple floor, splashing away. She just nods. Right. Paperwork. Alessandra gets a sidelong glance. Blink.
It is not very often that Alessandra is what one can consider to be angry but there she is, the shock and concern melting away to be replaced by ire; teeth ground together, the veins that run along either temple begin to stand out and the tendons that can be found at either side of her throat tense when she swallows, that being almost impossible for her to do because of the lump. "Why hasn't she been taken to Medical," she asks in a voice that is strangely calm, her question asked to the Marines' CO while Tis is watched. "And, more importantly, how the ever-loving-FRAK did she get ahold of a gun?"
It's the deepest of ironies, perhaps, that the gun Junior Lieutenant Apostolos used to try to kill the skinjob was the now-deceased Ashwood's handgun — given to Tisiphone to kill herself, a long time ago on a Leonis far, far away.
She almost did it, this time. It was loaded and /everything./
It's about then that the Brig hatch flies open again, with the loud-and-clear call of, "Medical! Clear a path! Medical coming through!" Enter the uniformed lifesavers — as opposed to the impromptu ones gathered around the downed would-be assassin — with their gear and stretcher and lack of caring about /how/ or /why/ she lays there, only that she /lives/.
Constin reports aloud for the medics as they finally arrive, "Two gunshot wounds, one to the abdomen, one to the left thigh. She passed out not thirty seconds ago." That news delivered to the professional lifesavers- as opposed to the professional life takers who clear the way, Constin keeps the pressure on the bullet wounds until a medic takes over, then steps back. "Lieutenant Sophronia," the sergeant barks curtly to get Allie's attention. "Your pilot was relived of her sidearm, smuggled in a second weapon and attempted the murder of a prisoner of the fleet before being subdued. Do you need to know more before filing charges?" Yeah, Elf aint amused.
Deep breath. "Lucky thing he missed," Lunair notes quietly. on one hand, Diesel DID follow procedure. On the /other/, she was kind of hoping it wouldn't involve normal shooting. She nods at Constin's explanation. She will help clear the path for medical. She's still in a thoughtful daze, somewhat guilty and worried. She takes a deep breath. Alessandra's anger just gets another strange, sidelong glance as if Lunair were staring into space. Blank, startled. For now, she is silent unless questioned.
The medical team nods crisply to Constin's injury report and moves into action, swapping the Sergeant's massive bloodstained hands for smaller, temporarily-clean ones. The pilot's tags are checked for blood-type as calls into the radio are made for Blood, And Lots Of It, to be waiting in Sickbay upon their arrival. Which will be Very Soon — Tisiphone's lifted into the stretcher out of a congealing, smeary puddle of her own blood — before they start moving off.
"Check with the Nurse's Desk for her status," they inform Alessandra, her commanding officer, before they exit.
"So. My…MY…pilot manages to smuggle a weapon into a place that is, by theory, supposed to be secured? Just where the frak did she have this gun hidden? Up her frakking yoohoo?" As Allie continues to vent her ability to be rational flies out the window, leaving her downright close to having a tissy fit to rival that of a spoiled three-year old child who just got told no. "Damn right there's going to be charges pressed," she adds once she remembers that this is, for all intents and purposes, a legal matter, "And I want a guard on her bed until she's well enough to have her dumb ass tossed into a cell!" Anything anyone else had to say has gone unheard, the SL rendered selectively deaf.
Constin glares right back at the hollering Allie. "Sir, frisking fleet personnel who will not be in contact with the prisoner is not standard procedure. Now then. You want to file those charges? Becuse if not, you're gonna be removed from this VERY damned secure place. Sir."
There's visible relief on Lunair's face once Tis is whisked to treatment. She looks to Constin, then Allie and back. Unless spoken to, the JiG is silent although it seems she might be preparing herself for paperwork. If no one questions her, she will attend to her duties and those filings.
Alessandra's hand drop to her own piece and slips it it out of the holster, preparing to relinquish it to the nearest Marine to follow the same protocol she has all but outright accused the others of not following. "I said I was going to be pressing charges Sargeant." Looking over to Lunair, she nods once, a brief acknowledgement, but then it's back to business, the Major watched out of the corner of her eye even as she addresses the hulking man she has grown to consider a friend. "Shall we," she asks him, calm and collected.
"Yes, sir," Constin answers Allie crisply. "If you'll step out into the central hub, the necessary paperwork can be filed." GODS, he hates paperwork. "Lieutenant Lunair is the ranking officer of the watch, Major Willows-Cavanaugh is the ranking officer on deck, and ah'll be along once ah've cleaned up, if you need words with me." Yeah, he does kinda have Tisiphone all over his hands.