| Musical Stylings of the Swarm |
| Summary: | Iosif sings a little song while being curious about the foundries. |
| Date: | 15 Mar 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Repair Bay - Hangar Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| When engines need to be rebuilt or other heavy but short-term work needs to be done, this is where it happens. Large, red hand-mobile cranes are situated along the wall beside stacks of toolchests. Carts with various computers and electronics are dispersed around the area for quick access. A very conspicuous yellow locker at the rear holds a sizable amount of firefighting gear, as well. Sturdy metal stands are available to hold all sorts of parts from gun systems to the FTL drives of a Raptor. Big enough to accommodate quite a few Vipers and Raptors at once, this area see's extensive use and is usually attended by at least one crew at all hours of the day and night. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #382 |
Iosif is working on a Raptor. Or, rather, assisting in the work on a Raptor. Presently that involves pushing around a bulky, tool-laden cart toward the mechanic who's actually under the bus. He whistles idly to himself as he does it, some jaunty Aerilon tune that seems to be lacking in a melody. Or has too many for its own good.
"Godsdamn, is every song you know some sort of jaunty jig? Don't you have something with a frakkin' melody?" One more thing she misses about Scorpia, Cilusia grumbles. She plods about with a bit of a limp and doesn't seem to bend or flex real easily, thanks to rolling through a Cylon factory not too long along.
Iosif trails off in mid-whistle. Though it's not so much a trail as a high-pitched, elongated whistling sound. That's the note on which he ends his song, such as it is. "You got any requests?" he calls back to Cilusia with a grin. "Something in the key of E, maybe, or a ballad?" He grunts as he slides his cart into place, squinting over at the limping Deckie. "You alright there?"
"Sore. Didn't stretch or something. Don't forget to stretch before you go EVA and help blow a Cylon foundry, okay?" Protip from one deckie to another, it would seem. "Just…start singing or whistling or whatever you're gonna do. Something uptempo, something exciting. Something Scorpian maybe?" With the Swarms abating, albeit temporarily, there's a lot of jury rigged gear needing to be refurbed for serious.
"What? Like club music? Maybe we could get some flashing lights overhead in here, make it a right show," Iosif says. At mention of the Cylon foundry he grimaces. Part wince, part interest. "What was it like up in that bloody thing? You hear stories, you know. Machines what spit fire and throw disembodied robot heads at you and the like. Can't say I'm sorry I wasn't plucked for that trip, I ain't ashamed to say."
"What? Huh? Someone's been pulling on your leg, dear boy." That sounds strange, since Cilusia's only a few years older. "No. No machines breathing fire…well, magnesium. But that doesn't count. Tracers I mean. First one sucked; second one was…better? I don't frakkin' know if that's how you'd describe the shit. That gun thing on the new ship…did a mother-frakkin' number on that place. It was like blowing up baby Cylons…kinda? Something? There weren't organized. Their construction equipment was the most deadly."
"Magnesium's an element. You do the right stuff to it, it's flammable," Iosif shrugs. As if this were the same difference. Not that he argues the point, leaning on his cart and listening attentively to Cilusia's tale. "Yeah. I heard about that bloody thing. It like…shorts them out or something, don't it? The Cylons, that is. And that gun thing. Wish it worked a fair bit prompter. Bloody weird if you ask me. Not that I'll complain, mind. Anything that blows up toasters is alright by my books."
"It's like a serious dose of drugs. It really frakkin' messes them up. Like the simple robots were still kind of working, but they were making some really, really messed up Raiders and shit. Like…gooey Cylon parts all hanging out and stuff." Let it not be said that Cilusia leaves out any of the details. "I imagine that gun thing probably works like an FTL or some shit. Gotta spool it up, charge it up, whatever. Shit, I don't even know. Maybe they work off the same drive!"
Iosif cracks a grin at Cilusia's detailed description of gooey Cylon parts and such. He's clearly the sort who enjoys a good horror movie. "Maybe. Never seen anything like it, myself, and I spent my whole life on ships. That gun bugger, that is. Seen a fair few FTLs in my day. I guess that makes sense. Time to charge up. Well, glad it works when it gets around to working, least ways. You got to wonder, though. Where the bloody hell was that thing when the Cylons hit the Colonies back on Warday? We could've bloody well used it over Aerilon, I tell you what."
"Yeah. And Scorpia. And Tauron. And Caprica. Ad nauseam. Basically, anywhere and everywhere. Shame that if it was a prototype, they just didn't get it finished in time to install across the fleet. Not that it would've made life any easier…especially if those computers got frakked all to hell like everything else. Though, maybe you could ask the commander or whatever. He comes around here often enough!" Cilusia just gives a shrug, and goes back to farting around with some gear.
"So we all there, lass," Iosif says, as to the prototype bit. Though the last earns a snort of faint disbelief. "Do he really? The command, that is. Come around, I mean? What? Walk about the hangar all man of the people and what-not?" He chuckles. "Can't really picture it."
"Well, I hear that all the pow-wows with the big brass happen here. All four captains…well, the three military kinds. Sometimes that civilian captain too. Seen the walking about, getting off the Raptors and all that shit." Oh, it's true. It's really really true, the look on her face confirms it!
Iosif cracks a grin at that, though he doesn't look like he disbelieves. "Guess everybody's got to come through here sooner or later. Heart of the ship and all that. Highest of the high, lowest of the lowest…cycles and such." Well, at least he isn't whistling anymore. He takes a quick look around the Repair Bay, as if making some mental calculations. "You figure it's done now? The toasters coming at us, day-in, day-out?"
Once again, Cilusia gives a shrug. "Don't know. Really don't. They stop coming, but our work doesn't stop. This is just a break in between panic-mode jury-rigging and emergency repairs. I frakkin' hate emergency repairs. Who knows how godsdamned long they'll hold out, you know. Pisses me right off." Already though she's in auto-repair mode, going through the practiced motions of her natural job on deck.
"You been in awhile?" It's half a question, half not, the way Iosif asks it. "The military, that is. War's been going on for the same amount of time for all of us. I just joined up a few months ago. Got a brother up in Engineering, he was in for a stretch before everything went to hells but it just…never seemed like a way I figured my life would go in normal times." He snorts. "Different now, of course."
"Frak me…uh…eleven? No, twelve years I think. Shit. Damn, that's a long time." Cilusia gives a little shrug again. "Figured I'd be higher than a PO2 by now though, at least from when I signed up. Keep getting my ass busted back down. But I just can't stand idiots, you know? I'd rather be brigged and right than get some rank pins and have to work under an idiot." That's her story, and she's sticking to it!
"Twelve years…blimey…" Iosif mutters with a shake of his head that's part admiration, part disbelief. "Well, I guess there're worse ways to live. Don't stay in one place too long, and there's lots of work to be done. I figure more now than before everything got blown to shite, but there's something to be said for keeping your hands busy. Busted down? For what? You beat up your superiors and the like?" He chuckles at the idea though, upon a second look at Cilusia, he's careful not to seem *too* amused by the idea.
A little smirk tugs at the corner of Cilusia's mouth. "See this, boy-o?" she asks, rolling up the sleeve of the orange jumpsuit on her right arm. "It's not just all flowers and butterflies." In reality, it's just kind of a skinny woman's arm, with a whole sleeve tattoo in various floral patterns. "Yeah, I slugged a PO1, got busted back down to PO3, and they shipped me here, figuring a change of scenery would be good."
"Pretty ink," Iosif observes. The latter part of that makes him snort a laugh. "Guess it was a lucky assignment. Or unlucky. Some days I can't figure out if we're living on or just being played with by the frakking toasters until all our numbers are up."
"Yeah well…I'm pretty godsdamned happy that if they want to take us out, we're going to go down swinging for the fences. Nukes, missiles, whatever this beast has. Throw whatever we got at those tin cans, and go out biting them in the ass." A weird little glimmer comes over Cilusia's face when she says that though, the grin getting bigger. "If the time comes, I think I'm ready? I don't know."
Iosif nods firm along with that, posture straightening a notch. "Hells of a way to look at it, Fasi. Healthier than most, likely. Well, we got nukes and missiles and pistols and weird frakking Guns that make Cylon horror shows. Could be worse, you take the wide view of it." He leans heavy on his tool cart, as a PO in another corner of the bay yells and makes a jerking sort of motion toward him. He's being summoned, apparently. "Best get to it. Luck with the work and all. For my part, hope it stays quieter for a spell."
"You have no idea…I hate jury-rigged shit. Did I mention that?" The lopsided grin sticks on her face. "Yeah, yeah, get to it. I got a whole stack of work here, just to keep those flyboys breathing. Step one, even if their ship's busted all to hell. People like oxygen." A casual little salute if given off the cuff, a little flick of the wrist and fingers off the eyebrow. "Later."
"Later. I'll work on my popular musical stylings," Iosif quips. And off he rolls.