| Log Title |
| Summary: | Log Summary |
| Date: | 23 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Ghosts of the Past |
| Players: |
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| Security Hub - Deck 6 |
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| More than just an office for the Marines and their XO, this room has remote surveillance views of the Brigs as well as a state of the art communications center built into the far bulkhead. A locked and heavily armored door to the aft leads into another room, the white lettering on it reading 'ARMORY.' There are a few desks scattered around the room for getting necessary paperwork done and the Commandant's picture hangs on the wall next to one of the President. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #209 |
With the third shift just begun a half hour prior Constin is fresh to the work of an MP as the sergeant sifts through reports. GODS he hates paperwork. Papers are sifted through and set into the 'cleared' pile rather quickly. Negative, negative, negative. A fresh chunk of the 'unreviewed' reports is taken up in a calloused hand. "Negative, negative.."
It's a different sort of warmed-over Hades that the Ensign resembles, today — at least she's finally changed out of the blood-stiffened fatigues. That counts for something, right? Right. Carrying a small sheaf of paperwork with her, Tisiphone steps up to the Security Hub's counter, slides the papers in front of her and…waits, quiet as a wee terrorist mouse.
Constin looks up from the papers- personnel reports from.. Engineering, apparently, to regard Tisiphone. The marine's face is still a mottled mess of fading bruises. "Sir," the sergeant greets evently, turning his narrow eyes from the pilot's face to the stack of forms on the counter. Setting his own papers down, the marine picks up the offered forms, and eyes the paperwork.
Request For Relinquishment Of Possessions In Event Of Untimely Death. Next-of-kin paperwork and the request for the earthly trinkets for one (1) Captain Ibrahim Sitka. Dated and signed this morning by Major Cidra Hahn and Ensign Tisiphone Apostolos. The latter stares down at the paperwork until Constin speaks, then lifts a hand to rub at the corner of her eye — it's allergy season on the Cerberus, don'tcha know — before looking up. "Sergeant. I. Ah, was supposed to bring these here." Her gaze falls again, tracking the sheets — in triplicate, no doubt — as the Marine takes them.
The only alteration that the unexpected request provokes in the big marine's expression is that Constin narrows his eye in a brief frown at the type of form. Signature and date appears in order as the sergeant looks back to the the pilot. "Relation to the deceased?" A simple question, which he picks up a pen to fill in in the 'To be completed by MP' section.
Lunair arrives from the Deck 6.
A simple question, yet the simple answer — or any answer at all — doesn't come. Tisiphone seems dumbstruck, nearly, furrowing sun-bleached brows at the paperwork as if it's somehow their fault. Finally, she slouches her hands down into her pockets, then drags them back out a second later, with cigarettes and a light. "He was my man," she says, without looking up from tapping out a smoke. Such a turn of phrase. Saggies. So quaint.
Tisiphone adds, in a thin, sore-sounding voice, "''For extenuating circumstances see reverse, B, must include CO notarization.'" She's stared at the paper a lot this morning, maybe.
Reverse B is flipped and eyed. All there in black and white, Major Hahn is aware and approves. "Will put down 'Absent relations', then," he mutters, writing in his small-lettered, heavy handed print. A look aside at the deck computer, and a quick series of commands input, before he drawls, "No security holds on the effects." A glance up to Tisiphone again. "You're lucky." Rising from his chair, the big man motions for the pilot to accompany him as he steps away from the desk.
Siiiiiiiiiigh. Marines starting fights, Marines getting beaten, fires starting, new Marines. There's been some positively /beastly/ behavior of late, even for the Rifle folks. Not to mention planning a wedding and a baby shower and her garden about to be handed off. It's all a bit much. With a cup of coffee, a slightly dazed expression, Lunair meanders into the area. Then a pause. Tisiphone. Man. Wow. She wandeered in at an interesting time. "Oh…" She gives Tisiphone a sympathetic look. "Salutations. I wish they were cheerier," She admits. She nods a greeting at Constin too.
Saggies don't cry, but there stands Tisiphone, looking like she's wrung herself dry a dozen times today. At least she's found some officerly decorum for the nonce. Ironic, maybe, that she's trying to act like an officer while submitting what might as well be a Proof Of Fraternization Form. A bloodshot glance over to Lunair is accompanied with a nod and a breath of smoke. "Sir," she says, only, before moving after Constin.
Corrath arrives from the Deck 6.
"El-Tee," Constin drawls toward Lunair as the Infantry officer enters. Picking up a fresh printout, the sergeant adds it to the trio of papers and a pen already held between the thick fingers of his right hand. Without leaving the Hub, the big marine steps toward one of the secured storage closets, and inputs his authorization code to open the panel. "Lieutenant, if you have a tick to spare? Could probably use a witness."
Poor Tisiphone. Lunair looks sympathetic. Really. Normally she's one to advocate avoiding fraternization but … Oh well. She pauses. "Of course," She offers quietly. She's still prim and proper as ever, a definite oddity in the age. She is going to be an awesome witness. … so long as they lower things so she can see them.
The hatchway to the Security Hub opens and the faint grumbles of Corrath can be heard before he's stepping through the hatch and into the room. If one were to listen closely, they might hear something about ungrateful naval officers though it's quickly cut off as he notices and abnormal amount of individuals in the room. Moving over towards one of the desk's, the Lieutenant says nothing and simply offers a nod to those that are present.
"Should I give his pins back to the CAG? What do you think?" Tisiphone asks Constin's back, as she follows him. It's asked with an odd, deceptive lightness — as if they were discussing whether ecru or cream would make a better shade for the back wall. Her eyes remain dry, though a brittle tension crawls through her shoulders and down her spine, and turns the drags off her cigarette into stiff, shallow puffs.
Constin takes note of Corrath when the Lieutenant lingers at the counter. "Sir. Be with you in a bit." While waiting the few moments for Lunair to approach, he answers Tisiphone without looking backward at her. "It'll save time if you do. Not sure whether a funeral's set or not," he adds before nodding to Lunair as the lady marine draws close enough to see as he hauls the storage door open, activating lights to reveal numbered shelves and rows of boxes, personal storage lockers, and other 'evidence'. Double checking the printout in hand, Constin steps past several large foot lockers to the approriate number. Stepping past a locker stenciled with 'Coll, L' he grasps and removes from the shelf one labelled 'Sitka, I'.
"I think that's a decision to mull over," Lunair admits. She says nothing further, watching and witnessing. She really does seem sympathetic. Lunair nods politely, smiling faintly at the Lieutenant in lieu of saluting. She looks briefly amused by his muttering, "Let me guess- you met her?" She'd grin, but - Tisiphone. She really seems to take some sort of empathy or who knows. Can one feel bad for a Saggie? Either way. She is respectful.
Shifting his attention towards Constin, Corrath is lifting a hand and giving a slight wave as if saying 'Don't worry about it'. Reaching the desk, he's depositing a folder on it before moving around to take a seat. Eyes shift int he direction of Tisiphone for a moment before looking over towards Lunair, a smirk dancing across his lips as he withdraws a small container of smokes from his pocket. "Oh, I did." Then, he's falling silent for the brief moment it takes to open the folder and withdraw a couple sheets of paper to no doubt file in the desk drawer.
"Don't know. They won't let me see the body." Not as casual, that statement; maybe it's the effort required to keep 'the body' smooth and uninflected. "No place on a Battlestar for a funeral pyre anyway," she adds. There's a silver lining for you, Ensign. Tisiphone takes an unnecessary step back as Constin drags the storage container off the shelf, her thumbnail flicking against her cigarette's filter several times more than is necessary.
Constin steps out of the storage closet and sets Sitka's chest of effects on a table placed nearby for just such an occasion. At Tisiphone's statement of not being permitted to see the body, the big sergeant simply grunts, "Yeah." The seal on the large box is loosed and the lid lifted to reveal the contents. Reclaiming his printout, Constin methodically goes over the listed contents as they were inventoried upon collection. "One locker, issued to Ibrahim Sitka, Air Wing." Check. "Four sealed packages of cigarettes.." Check. The list goes on.
Lunair is - kind of sad. Strange, that. Poor Tisiphone. It's hard not to hug her or pat her shoulder. She bites her lower lip a little. She watches Constin and Corrath for now. Should she offer consoling words? No, it's a bad time. "Perhaps later, we should meet about a few things," She offers quietly to Tisiphone. There. "On your convenience."
A smoke is withdrawn from his package and then Corrath is tossing the pack to the desk before depositing the smoke between his lips. A lighter is fished from his pocket and when the smoke is lit, the lighter returns to the hidden confines from where it came. A faint sigh escapes his lips after a long haul is taken, almost as if it's been too long since his last one. Shifting his attention back in the direction of the trio, the S2 simply observes for the moment, not wishing to intrude on the retrieval of effects.
Unopened cigarettes? Tisiphone huffs out a smoky snort. "Said he was out." Her eyes crease at the corners. "Frakking mooch." She falls silent, then, as Constin continues the roll call for Shiv's earthly possessions. Sunglasses. Glideschool- and Snow Petrels-branded civilian clothing. Several small books; a couple of them in Sagittaran, others children's stories. An entire bucket of… scavenged /junk/ — everything from fan belts to broken toys. Half-finished whittling projects. Well-thumbed porn mags. "Whenever, Sir," Tisiphone forces out, to Lunair, as the tally reaches its end. "You know where to find me. I should have brought my duffel." The second bit to Constin.
Constin runs down the mortal leavings of the dead Squadron Leader meticulously, point by point, removing the items from the box as they are named and setting them on the tabletop. All too soon, the last item is pulled loose of the tape which holds it to the outside of the box: a plastic bag, containing, "One dog tag." Tisiphone's duffel comment is answered with, "You can haul the box, sir. Can request if you need a hand," that last is said almost dryly. The printout is held out to Tisiphone, "Signature to verify reciept of effects," he prompts, before refilling the box.
Lunair doesn't seem to mind the smoking. She too, observes and witnesses as per her agreement. She lifts her eyebrows, briefly amused by Tis' reaction. She takes a deep breath. "Alright, I'll come find you." She says nothing more than that, just watching.
Puff. Puff. That's what Corrath seems to be intent on doing, at least for a moment. Finally, he's lifting a hand to pull the smoke from his lips so that it can be rested on the ashtray so that he can flip open the notebook he'd settled on the desk. The pen is retrieved and he's jotting a few things down before settling the pen back on the desk. Finally, he's rising from his seat, claiming his smoke in the progress.
"Who do I talk to about staying informed on the charges against his attacker?" Tisiphone asks the paper she's staring down at, the pen twitching uncertainly between her fingers. She starts to look up, then clears her throat and looks back down. "They won't let me in to see him, either." She starts to scribble her signature, and a drip of water — leak in the ceiling, must be — interposes itself. She draws her pen back, finishes her letters in a slightly different spot, wipes a thumb across her eyes before offering the pen and paper back.
Constin accepts the pen and paper back from Tis, "Well, now you're gonna be on the books for such," he notes, indicating the form she's just turned in. "So you'll hear. Bad news is.. procedures for visiting prisoners have been tightened since the last time you was visiting, sir." Deadpan delivery. "You want in to see, it'll take clearance from Major Willows." Drawing the sealed door closed, and re-engaging the lock, he turns to Lunair, "El-Tee. If you can sign here to verify that I handled no items inside, other than those on the inventory?"
Lunair listens. She frowns. She really is sympathetic. If she could get away with it, she'd pat Tis on the shoulder. Lunair says nothing though judging by how her face clouds, it's a slightly troubling issue on prisoners and visitors. "Sure," Lunair nods and moves to sign. She'll take a pen, before in neat, delicate letters, her name and rank are scribbled appropriately. She saw it. She totally did. "I'll keep you updated if there's anything non-confidential," She notes quietly to Tis. "Or that the MPs do not mind sharing, but that is their business and not mine." She merely accepts it.
The smoke is lifted back to his lips and Corrath takes a long haul off it before flicking the ash off into the ashtray and then butting the smoke out. It's only then that he's looking back in the direction of the trio, listening for the moment and simply giving a slight nod of his head to what Constin said. That done, he shifts and makes his way over towards the armory, keying in his personal code before disappearing inside for a moment.
"Doubt choking someone with your prayer beads's a reason to get to speak with them, anyway," says Tisiphone, equally deadpan, on matters of garnering visiting rights (and the vanishingly slim chance thereof). "As long as he dies. I don't care how. You, ah-" She stares down at the footlocker, now, and curls her fingers as if seriously considering lugging it herself. "I'll- is there a dolly?"
"S'a helluva reason," Constin drawls back to the prayer bead line. "Just don't tend to go over well with the brass." Bone dry are the words. "Set a minute," he mutters to the request for a dolly, taking back the paper from Lunair with a nod of muttered thanks, and moving toward a supply closet.
A nod at Constin. Lunair is glad to help. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that private is still having nightmares from when I all but sat on him," She furrows her brows. He could've been crushed! CRUSHED! OFFICER BUTT! "I'd prefer to keep that to minimum," Please. She says nothing on the prisoner dying. Not her venue. She does look to Corrath, peering over. "Need some help in there?"
A moment later, Corrath is emerging from the armory, sans weaponry this time and a small duffel bag which he's slung over one shoulder. Eyes flicker over in the direction of Lunair, to whom he's giving a quick smile, "Nah, just securing my arms so I can go off duty. Thanks for asking, though." The armory door is quickly closed behind him and then he's ensuring that it's sealed and locked.
"Yessi-" Tisiphone starts to Constin's request, reflexively, before finishing with an awkward, "-uh." She folds her arms tightly across her chest, squeezing them inward in a one-woman hug, head tipped so she can stare down at the floor directly in front of her boots — and conveniently avoid meeting anyone else's eyes in the process.
Constin checks one supply closet, and after relocating a mop and bucket (get ready to salute, Tis), the sergeant draws out a wheeled dolly. Bright, shiny, and barely scuffed up by its eight months of service. Tisiphone's near 'sir'ing draws a moment's mute look in which he blinks once. "Right, this oughta do, sir."
"Sure thing," Lunair smiles. "It's been awhile. I hope you've been well? Though I'm about midway through my shift," She admits somewhat ruefully. She looks back to Constin and Tisiphone. Her eyebrows quirkk a bit at the near sir. "Oh, it happens." Right? Right. "If you need anything, I'll be taking over a desk and herding cats for a bit," There's a faint smile before she moves to settle in.
There's a faint chuckle now and Corrath's shoulders lift into the slightest of shrugs, "Well enough, I suppose. I'd ask you the same, but since you're only half way through the shift, I can imagine the answer." Eyes flick back to Tisi and Constin and he's giving each of them a slight nod of his head before looking back to Lunair, "Suppose I should go change and then see who's around the Obs Deck that I can harass this evening."
She must not have had the So I Was Banging My CO conversation with the CAG yet, considering she's mobile and intact. Surely it won't be long until she's saluting mops, urinals, and other such noble objects. "Uh," Tisiphone says to Constin, wiping the edge of her thumb along her eyes again, looking from the footlocker to the dolly and back again. "Yeah. Thanks. I'll bring it back." She doesn't ask for help — be it pride, or stubbornness, or plain ol' cluelessness — and just starts dragging the dented gear onto the bright and barely-abused metal framework, making ready to move out.
Constin nods once to Tisiphone's promise to return the gear. "Sir," the marine drawls, returning the freshly filled-out paperwork to the Hub desk, and filing them appropriately. "Damnation, I hate paperwork," the sergeant growls under his breath.
"It's alright, I might come say hi," Lunair smiles at Corrath in turn. She seems pleased. "Good idea, it's a lovely place." Lunair looks to Tisiphone. "If not, let me know and I'll come help out, alright?" Sometimes with a saggie, one has to offer the hand, right? Right. She still has a worried air around her. Then a look to Constin. "Well. If I can help out with it, I'll take what I can. I understand things've been rough and paperwork is like rubbing sand paper all over your nether regions." She's not unsympathetic at least. Then a yawn. A sip of coffee. Mutter.
There's another flash of a smile to Lunair and Corrath is giving a nod of his head, "Sounds good. Enjoy your shit, El-Tee." That said, the S2 shifts, offering a 'Sergeant' to Constin and giving Tis a nod before making his way towards the hatch that leads out of the Hub and back into the Marine Country Hallway.
"Thanks," Tisiphone repeats. It's gritted past a breathless huff as she rocks the dolly back, and shuffles it around to aim it for the door. The hatch is a half-second from closing behind her when the first sharp, wet sniffle is heard. The rest is lost to the corridor beyond. No crying (directly) in front of the Marines. She'll call that a flawless victory, she will.
Constin half turns to regard Lunair over one shoulder. "Obliged for the offer, El-Tee, but like it or not, this shit's mine to wade through." Corrath's parting word is returned in kind, "Lieutenant." The departing Tisiphone is given the fare-thee-well of, "Sir," as the sergeant settles back into his prior set of tasks. Next department report, negative.. Next department.. negative. Next department.. "Sunovabitch," the marine mutters, stiffening in his seat.
"Fair enough," Lunair seems sympathetic at least. "Don't work yourself too hard," She seems duly cnocerned. But poor Tis. She waves to the Sagittaron, before sighing and looking to her own work. There's an amused look to Corrath and a wave. "Thanks." Her nose wrinkles a little and so she settles in.
Constin raises his voice to carry clearly, before Corrath fully withdraws, "Sir." Looking from the one among the stacks of department reports, to fix on Corrath, the sergeant rises, paper in hand. "Looks like I'ma need clearance for something." The big man's expression has darkened.
Caught with only one foot out of the hatch, Corrath has no choice but to stop and cast a look over his shoulder with a questioning lift of a brow all that's offered for the moment. Then, he's retracting his foot and turning to make his way back into the security hub, eyes flicking over towards Constin as he gives a slight nod of his head, "Whatcha need, Sergeant?"
Lunair is herself a part of the background, though she lifts her head, curious. She quirks aan eyebrow and watches for now.
"Person-of-interest file is out in connection with an assault case perpetrated on marine personnel-" the same assault case that left Constin hospitalized for a day and has his face still mottled by bruises. "Estimated six foot tall, between two-fifty and three hundred, favoring an injured left knee. Just got this is." The page is offered to Corrath. 5'11, 280 pounds, no showed for a shift yesterday, attended this morning with a limp. "Name of Marlon Verne. Pee-Eff-Cee, Colonial Marine Corp." Such a suspect has twisted the big sergant's face into a fierce scowl. "Need high clearance to detain."
"Meant to ask how you were doing. Didn't want to intrude on that." He motions to the lockers, obviously indicating the not-so-long ago interaction with Tis. When the page is offered in his direction, Corrath is accepting it and looking it over, his brow lifting as a slight scowl takes hold of his lips. After a moment, eyes lift in the direction of Constin and the S2 gives a simple nod of his head, "Authorized." There's a moment's pause before he's continuing. "I'm beginning to dislike the rumors, and facts, that are floating around of numerous assaults."
A deep sigh at that. "Yeah… I don't like it either," Lunair frowns deeply. "I wish there was something I could do," She admits looking to Corrath then back to Constin. "But that's MP business I suspect and unless I /catch/ someone at it - well." Not much she can do. She knows better. "Though I'm somewhat disappointed a few of our new Marines already started a food fight." Siiiiiiigh. Positively beastly. "Either way, good luck." She offers a soft grunt.
"Right now, sir?" Constin drawls back to Corrath, scowl unsoftened. "I'm just frakking peachy." Lunair's wish to do something about it draws an eye. "How you feel about bringing a fireteam to assist in a detainment, El-Tee?" Corrath's displeasure draws the sergeant's eye back, to whom Elf voices, "We can get one, I got a real good notion we can get more. Justice has a nasty way of making folks less inclined to piss on the rules."
There's a grunt and Corrath is giving a nod of his head, "Good." Eyes flit in the direction of Lunair and then back to Constin, his head bobbing once more in an approving gesture. "True enough, Sergeant. But if that doesn't take, pass the word that if these continue, there are going to be some serious consequences, regardless of who the frak is involved. I'm not going to tolerate this kind of nonsense. Especially with everything we've got going on." The duffel bag is tossed to the floor and the S2 makes his way back to the armory, "I'm coming along, Sergeant. It's your show, though."
Lunair grunts softly. "I'd be glad to bring whatever you need." She nods at Corrath's sentiment. It is the Constin and Friends show. "No kidding. This is madness. So many assaults, threats on civilians, stabbing of a pilot." It's a veritable bedlam to the blueblood! "Wherever those toasters in people suits are - they don't have to do much to tilt things into chaos," Her nose wrinkles distastfully, "It seems. But I don't think any off us is inclined to let that happen." Right? Right. Stupid inconvenient skinjobs.
Constin nods once. "Your prerogative, sir," the sergeant returns flatly to the fact that the S2 is coming along. Punching the name in question into the Hub computer, to determine the suspect's on- or off-duty status. "No sir, we are not," Constin answers Lunair's last supposition slowly and crisply.
It only takes a moment for Corrath to slip into the armory and retrieve his sidearm and as he exits, he's attaching the holster back to his belt. Eyes shift in the direction of Lunair and then Constin, giving a slight nod of his head. "Sergeant, going forward, you have my authorization to detain any individuals believed to be involved with these assaults. They are to be secured in the brig and visitation restricted unless authorized by myself, Major Willows or yourself."
Well, glad she's not the only one who hopes for such a thing. For now, Lunair stands and moves to fetch and prepare a fire team for the group. She pauses, to check and make sure everything is manned before pulling unfortunate souls. She'll return herself, side arm neatly holstered and attached to her belt. She nods, for now going quiet. "Well. They'll be about in a moment." She does what she says at least.
"Acknowledged, El-Tee," Constin drawls back to Corrath. Double checking the standard on-duty rig of his sidearm and nightstick, the sergeant reports, "Target went off duty fifty minutes ago." Turning to voice toward the MP on monitor duty, "Panos, cross reference the Armory logs. Has Fireteam Bravo Three-Three re-checked arms?" Answered in the affirmative, he returns to Corrath and Lunair. "Once Lieutenant Lunair's support is prepped, I suggest we start with the berths."
Corrath's hand falls to rest on the handle of his weapon, fingers curling around it in an almost too-casual gesture. Eyes flit from Constin, to Lunair and then to the duty MP as he simply listens. Then, eyes shift back to Constin and he's offering the Sergeant a nod of his head, "Affirmative. On your leave, Sergeant." Still, the slight scowl remains upon the man's lips, no doubt because of the task at hand.
Mercifully, the support doesn't take too long and there's four marines waiting patiently. She glances over, checking their gear - almost habitually. While the others might have scowls and drawls, Lunair seems quite out of place with a distant, stern expression. Kind of solemn. Maybe someone stuck her on the side of a mountain once. She grunts. "On your leave," A nod to Constin. The grunts behind her are quiet and still for now. She glances between the others.
Continued in the log Round Two.