| Won't You Be My Neighbor? |
| Summary: | Recent recon of the city has revealed signs of heavily-armed life, and the Kythera team ventures out to meet their neighbors. |
| Date: | 14 May 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Marigold Road Northeast |
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| This diagonal thoroughfare that links suburbs to town forms the southern arm of the rotated 'Y' that is the backbone of the city. With room enough for four cars on each side of the road and lampposts every seventy-five meters to guide their way, Marigold Road would become a glittering parade of hazard lights and neon at the first sign of dusk. Now that Kythera's electrical grid has been well and truly fried, no power exists to illuminate what unbroken signage remains: like the supermarket here, the gas station there, and the home improvement store behind, to name the stores on but one of its blocks. Most prominently displayed of all is a white Asklepian staff on a field of navy blue, to the right of which crest stands the low-slung frame of Kythera General Hospital. One of its walls has already crumbled to dust, and if its exposed columns and sagging ceilings are any indication, the complex doesn't have much time left. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #76 |
Another day. Another creepy day, and the sun hangs low in the sky, having already begun its descent, shining weird, iradescent colors through the irradiated haze above and casting shadows which are just a bit too tall. Fortunately, these shadows provide cover. Since last night's encounter in the coffee shop, the Kythera group has not encountered a single soul, but are now on an expedition to investigate the sightings made a few days ago — the promise of survivors holed up in the remains of Kythera General Hospital.
Still in formation, the figure of Oberlin is pretty haggard and weary-looking. Like anyone would be, really. The pair of Marines present yesterday still lead a two-pronged escort as the group ducks quietly through an alleyway. As they get closer to the hospital, one could recall armed patrols proceeding in tight-knit formations throughout the vicinity. They seemed to stick to the main roads, however.
"Now — do we waltz up to the front door or wave down their guards? Don't know how friendly they're even going to be." Oberlin muses aloud. Strange, as he looks at his team, checking for consensus.
"Maybe I should approach them, unarmed. Alone. As show of good faith? Better we be seen as allies instead of a threat." Not that Sawyer could be considered much of a threat. Her black combat gear is now annoyingly grey after days of climbing around the rubble of the city and holing up at MolGen.
Stavrian has been in a subdued, uneasy sort of silence through this latest excursion. Subdued and uneasy's described him since last night, more on edge since the 'spectre's departing words to them at that shattered and moldy cafe. So of course, let him carry a gun around. He mutters out of the side of his mouth to Oberlin as they walk. "I'd make at least one person visible from far back and then approach, sir, however you're planning on identifying. Getting too close too fast might look like a threat." That said, he adds, "I'd leave at least one covering ass from back here."
Penelope frowns at the compound, her expression full of sullen mistrust. "I wish we could just leave them the sod alone," she mutters, irritable that her conscience doesn't allow for this option. "Nobody on this colony is even the littlest bit sane. Scientific heretical cults, snooty heretical ghosts… these blokes are like to be a bunch of cannibals that think Zeus is a cross dressing postal worker that shoots angry ticks out of his nipples." She sighs, glancing at Sawyer and nodding. "I agree with Sawyer, to be honest. Approaching them in peace might leave us frakked, but getting caught skulking about leaves us really, really frakked."
"Who…what was she?" Haeleah murmurs as she treks along with the group. Mostly to herself. Her mind is still on the phantom from the previous night. She clears her throat, dark eyes flicking up and over at Oberlin. "Well, sir. There's obviously some freaky shit going on in this place. How friendly would *you* be? Question is whether they're freaks or…anti-freak, I guess." And speaking of, she asks what's actually on her mind. "Lieutenant, do you think they're…I don't know…in league or whatever with that…thing we met last night?"
"I agree that we keep at least /somebody/ out of sight. Walker, Diesel. You're our best shots. I agree that barging up to the front door under what looks to be a sniper tower might be comically fatal." Oberlin starts. "Two of you hang back to provide cover in case things get ugly. If one of us goes down, provide cover until the rest get out of here. Now who do we send to talk?" He smiles thinly as if he knows that's a potential death sentence.
To the other topic, posed by the Pair of Paris/Parres he has no immediate answer, but his smile fades. Completely. "Honestly, I don't care what god anyone worships. Unless they think they've got a pipeline to that god and it's pumping out a stream of stupid. But — this is a problem. A huge problem. I'm asking questions that make sense later but that woman wore a dead woman's face, seemed to regard us as an enemy, and knew the names of us, and one of our dead." This last bit is dangled out there as he glanced to Stavrian. "Good catch, by the way."
Off in the distance, the shadows of a small patrol on the march are cast upon the pavement at the end of the alley, five blocks or so away.
Sawyer's lips thin as she looks to Oberlin. "I believe I already volunteered. It's the most logical choice, as I have the least applicable skill set. I'm a lousy shot, my medical training doesn't extend past kissing boo-boos, and I've already garnered all the information we need from the MolGen computer systems. Of course, there's also the reasoning that I may just have a touch more dipolomacy, given my line of work. Just…tell me our objective for going in there and cover my ass." Sawyer gives a glance to the distance. "Just make your choice quickly, because here they come."
Stavrian's eyes shift to Oberlin, regarding the man flatly. Yeah. Good catch. He exhales through his nose, tensely, glancing at Sawyer and then at Oberlin again. "Sir. Unless you're keeping back more than just Walker and Diesel in the shadows, then we're all 'going'. The strength in number isn't a bad idea; four is non-threatening but enough to put up a fight if needed. I would have two people staked to do 'the talking' as it were, initially. Give them a focal point to talk to in the initial confusion, because there /will/ be confusion." He thins his lips. "Unless you're honestly considering putting one single person out there with the rest of us hiding in the rubble. All due respect that sounds like a terrible idea." His eyes flicker as shadows get closer. "Patrol. Whatever we do, let's not startle anyone."
"I would be a spectacularly bad choice for spokesperson, especially if these people turn out to be lunatics like everyone else," Penny recuses herself. "And I agree that the media chippy's probably got the best people skills. But…" She shrugs at Oberlin. "You're our leader. Maybe you're not as pretty or smooth as Sawyer, but it might be wise to make sure there's no ambiguity about who's in charge. You've done fine speaking for us so far."
"I'm not much on anybody going up there alone," Haeleah says. "I agree with Stavrian. Maybe you and the reporter could try to break with ice with them, sir?" To Oberlin, that last. "I'm not much of a diplomat, but I'm willing to go with. Strength in numbers and all."
"Of course not. But 'designated talker.'" Oberlin's scoff towards Stavrian seems almost professionally deflated. He's a little off his game, here, however. Probably why he's polling others. "I was only suggesting that, in the event they were hostile, two shooters in cover could probably pin down hostiles. Particularly our best shooters." He says with a look back to the marines. "But, point taken. Diesel, Walker, bring up the rear and just put yourselves in place where you can easily provide cover fire and apply superior positioning." His chest heaves in the body armor and then falls. "Well, that's that, then. Let's do this. And by all means — my crazyDRADIS is broken, so you all — feel free to chime in with warmth and humanity." Another flickering smile. "C'mon then." He gestures towards Sawyer. "Let's do this. Column of two, weapons up. And if they start shooting, just /jump./"
He starts on down the alleyway. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Paris."
And with that, the patrol starts to clear into the alleyway. Broken rubble of buildings, refuse, and the remains of firefights unknown litter the thing which will probably result in some travel noise anyway even if the group were /trying/ to sneak. A green-armbanded figure with an assault rifle proceeds along the way, at the edge of the alley. She is whipcord thin, with an unkempt mop of light brown hair. Her companion is stocky and quite hairy, hefting a shotgun. They are similarly dressed. They begin to scan the area.
Sawyer quirks a bit of a smirk, "I am pretty, aren't I?" The reporter mimicks fluffing her hair, but of course she has her helmet on which limits access to her actual locks. "Sure thing, our fearless leader. I just hope Walker and Diesel back there are prepared to forcibly extricate us, should this motley crew decide to kidnap us and keep us as some sort of bargaining chip with the Colonial Military. What /is/ the equivalent price of one benefide journalist?" Quickly, Sawyer shoots a glance to Penelope. "Better yet, don't answer that." She falls silent as they make progress towards the patrol.
Weapon up, mouth shut. Stavrian is used to this kind of order, which he starts to follow with some mix of resignation and unease. He lets the rifle rest on his shoulder long enough to fix the brassards on his upper arms, turning the Medical Corps symbol forward. Same on the flap of his medical pack, making sure the symbol shows clearly. What people see on first look is worth a thousand words. As Sawyer keeps talking, his blue eyes fix on the side of her face. Then turn away, with a slow exhale. As the patrol nears them — not exactly part of the plan, being apprached — he follows Oberlin's lead.
Penelope smirks at Sawyer, giving the reporter a quick, chummy clap on the shoulder before the group pairs up and moves out. Tense and silent, she falls into line, pretty much expecting to be riddled with bullets every step she takes. She keeps her eyes on the leader, watching for cues.
Haeleah rather awkwardly follows Stavrian's example in getting her own rifle situated on her shoulder. Military or no, she's an engineer, not a groundpounder. "Least they don't resemble any dead I've seen lately," she quips to Penelope as she falls back next to her fellow snipe.
As the group makes their way up, the little two-person (at least, that's what can be seen) patrol stops as someone's boot crunches on some particularly noisy metal rubble which echoes through the still air of the city. And they come to a dead stop. The pair, the thin woman and the stocky man round on down the alleyway as they stop and stare, weapons drawn. Less than just two blocks away, their expressions can be seen as one of tense surprise. Walker and Diesel tense in turn but keep their weapons up. The woman barks, "Hold it! Where we can see you." She has her assault rifle trained on the front of the group, the stocky, hairy man has his shotgun at the ready. These two have sort of plain, casual clothing and each has an additional pistol at the belt.
The man chimes in, "If you're lookin' for something to take, we've got nothin' but lead. And OH SHIT do we got that." His accent is coarse, and speaks of a grimy lower-echelon existence and some rough places. Even before they got bombed.
Sawyer sticks close to Oberlin, but unlike the others, she's not quick to have her rifle at the ready. Hers is loosely grasped in her hands, the muzzle pointed down towards the rubble. At least maybe she can /look/ imposing, even if she can really hit the broadside of a barn. Hey, they don't know that over there. Yet. She exchanges a quick glance with Oberlin, and then pipes up. "Actually, we have something to offer you. Information. News I bet you've been severely cut off from. That's worth a little hospitality, if not a bit of trust. No taking, but how about a nice little exchange?"
Stavrian has his rifle at-ready, tense but used to being in an initial firearms standoff. His rifle muzzle is pointed slightly less aggressively than the guns of the facing strangers. The Sagittarian soma braid on his left wrist is a fine indicator that if the PA spoke, his accent would be just as guttertrash, if not more, than the man warning them against looting. Silent, he uses the time to look over each of these unknowns in turn, eyes making subtle flickers.
There's a sign right there. There's /talking/, rather than shooting. Oberlin's gun goes up even further as he raises an open hand. "Hey hey hey hey. Nobody's here to take anything other than a few minutes to talk. We're Colonial Fleet. We're here to help." He smiles one of those smiles that just isn't quite fit for prime time, and glances sideways at Sawyer. Coming to a dead stop.
Somewhere near the middle of the pack, Niobe has been muttering a few choice words to no one in particular about the situation that they've found herself in. It's never subordinate, but it's not exactly happy, either. While she was born on Leonis, it's not exactly the place she would call home. While she may not be quite as awkward as some of the enlisted at holding a rifle, she's not what anyone would call a crackshot. Instead, she just slows to a stop.
Penelope tries to stay loose, to not let her body communicate how tense and trigger-happy she really feels. Her rifle isn't trained on the pair, loose in her grip, but she's certainly not relinquishing her weapon. She watches the strangers, alert for any sign things are about to go south; she listens to Sawyer and Oberlin playing it friendly-like, reasonable and calm.
Haeleah points her gun nowhere but semi-up, the casual position it's laying at against her shoulder. For a moment she just watches the pair of patrollers. Gaze tentative but, oddly, hopeful. A sidelong look at Penelope and Niobe, and a shrug. At least they haven't encountered any zombies. That's a positive.
Walker and Diesel remain stock-still in the back of the pack, at their little corner positions, remaining silent. The younger of the two, Diesel, sighs a little bit, looking visibly antsy. In the meantime, there's good news. Nobody's gotten shot.
The woman in the lead of the patrol lets out a little, hoarse croak of a laugh. "Say /what/? Was gonna say, you all look like you raided the best surplus joint of all time. But whose ass was your head up to get here this late? If you're not just trying to scam us."
The man at her side asks, incredulously, "Yeah, you from the Battlestar 'Sorry We Didn't Show up?' Ain't seein' any battles in the sky, man." All the while, more shadows shift, four more green-armbanded and similarly armed figures come into view behind them. "So what'll it be, then?" Another one calls out. "Get out of that alley and into the light. And try anything funny and remember there are more where /we/ came from." A thick-necked man says.
There's another glance to Oberlin, and then Sawyer takes it upon herself to inch forward some more. There's still the two marines on point, and there's plenty enough time for Oberlin to snag her back if need be. "All the Twelve Colonies were hit. Did you know that? Somehow I'm betting that you didn't. We've seen this exact same scene on eleven other rocks, the only difference of course, being you. So do you want to talk? Or are you happy being the little Sub-sect of Humanity that Could?"
"Oh brother." Niobe let's out a breath as she rolls a shoulder and watches the lead woman attempt to deal with their scouting party. They're not shot yet, that's a good thing, but that doesn't mean they won't be shortly. As more of the green bands meld out of the shadows, she shifts on her feet, catching the look that Haeleah shots at her. Maybe no zombies, but a group of crazy people doesn't make her feel any better. Under her breath, maybe loud enough for Penelope and Haeleah to hear, she mutters, "Anyone else think 'Sorry We Didn't Show Up' is just a bad idea for a ship name? It's way too long for uniform patches."
Penelope's jaw flexes, her gaze settling on the little, hairy fellow at the lean woman's side. She looks as though there's a lot she'd like to say… none of it warm or fuzzy, constructive or reassuring. To her credit, she keeps it to herself, lips set in a thin, grim line. She looks towards Oberlin — she's only moving or standing ground on his orders.
"We showed up. Late." Oberlin mutters, deadpan. "This is how you get the bargains." He waves the little group along, down the alleyway though as he gives Sawyer a blink. "You should put that on a coffee cup or a motivational poster. Damn." With that, he keeps on walking forth, "We're coming. We're — compromised. But not completely destroyed. And may have a way off-world, if you're interested." The little signal Penelope was waiting for is given, as he leads the group out into the street.
Haeleah inches forward at Oberlin's signal, to join the little meet-and-greet. Still looking an unthreatening as a woman in combat gear and armed can. She still keeps her mouth shut. She is /definitely/ not a diplomat. But she eyes the green-armband group with open curiosity.
"That's pretty wide-scale." The woman at the edge of the patrol says, holding her gun aloft. The little patrol steps back to make a hole for the Colonials to fill and if there is no resistance, they begin to surround them. With their weapons still in hand. "If you're going to be /that/ way about it, keep in mind, we have our eyes on you. If you do /anything/ that hints at hostility, you all won't be walking for very long. Or breathing. Got it? I think we'd better take you to meet The Man." She gestures along in the vague direction of Kythera General Hospital.
"Got it." Oberlin states, succintly, his face not exactly happy, but certainly not readable. He keeps his weapon straight up as he walks along.
Sawyer ghosts a smile at Oberlin's comment about the poster, as she moves along with the group. As there's talk of taking them to meet their leader, the Reporter casually slings her rifle back onto her shoulder. If a fire fight breaks out /now/ they're screwed anyways, with or without Sawyer's cruddy aim. "The only thing we have to gain from you, is an ally. By our approximation, there aren't a lot of humans left anywhere. What's the saying? Stand together, or fall apart?" She clomps along a few more steps, her boots falling heavy. "I'm Sawyer, by the way. This is Lieutenant Oberlin, Parres, Paris, Stavrian and Phlades." My they're LT heavy. She assigns names to all in the visible party, because faces with names are statistically harder to kill out of cold blood.
Once the signal is given, Niobe edges into the alley along with the others. What she really doesn't like is being surrounded. Tensing, she hisses, "Is being surrounded by people with guns part of this plan and getting shot in a dark alley part of the scouting mission? I don't think I like that part of the plan."
Stavrian is just the LT with the medical insignia and the gun. If he does have any inclination to be talky, he's keeping it to himself quite well. Eye keep track of every figure along with them, weight shifting on his feet as he starts along after Oberlin.
"Haeleah Parres," the Two-R-Parres pipes up helpfully, for her part. "The other one's Penelope Paris." A deadpan, "We aren't relations." Not that it isn't physically apparent, unless they were Sisters From Another Mother. "We both respond when you Parres us, though, so don't stress about it." Hard to tell if she's quipping because she's more comfortable now or if nerves make her babble. It's a 50-50 shot. Along she goes, to meet The Man.
Penelope watches Sawyer make introductions, then slings her own rifle. In for a cubit… in for a frakking LOT of cubits. Why not. She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again, glancing at Haeleah with a faint, tense grin. "What she said," she agrees.
Oberlin merely tosses a wordless nod and a mute smile at his name as they get coralled in, rolling his eyes a bit as they walk along. Finally he does pipe up. "The Man. Sounds promising." With that, they continue along.
| Kythera General Hospital |
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The lights overhead are long dead, many of the glass domes in shattered pieces on the floor. Exposed beams and columns cast shadows through the large room, the sagging ceiling bulging and cracking in dangerously dark spots. The complex may not have much time left. ||
| Post-Holocaust Day: #76 |
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Time passes as they make it down the street to the cordoned entryway. Along the way, the introductions are sparse. "Name's Butcher. It was just from my folks, it ain't a vocation." The woman in the lead says, a little tersely but with a touch more ease than she had before. "This is Lilly." She gestures towards the hairy man, grunting. "Turner. Palomides. Wayne." They're a scraggly, sort of chewed-up looking lot. There's something fairly hardened about the group.
The Hospital drive-up proper is littered with a ton of broken furniture, a couple of piecemeal junk cars, and various other odds and ends. It's not the most high-tech of military installations, but you make do with what you have.
There are more rough-looking people with green armbands. On the front door there's a spray painted green sign that reads "III." Like the graffiti seen elsewhere on the street. "Make room!" Butcher shouts. More people are on alert.
A large man comes bounding on over. "The Frak you doing, Butch? These people 're armed. Better armed than us." He whistles, sharply. She adds, "Yeah. They're military. Bringing 'em here to see The Man."
The erstwhile bouncer scowls. "If they're gettin' in, your guns, please." He gestures at Sawyer first and foremost. "If you behave, we can guarantee we'll give 'em back. In one piece. Just like you."
Everyone in the Colonial group can get a sense of something here. These people are /rough/. Not as in 'Anti-Cylon resistance' rough, but most of them seem to have an air of varying degrees of thuggishness. They just radiate it.
Sawyer flicks a glance over at Oberlin, half expecting this request, but of course she's reluctant. And she's no doubt checking with her version of The Man, for confirmation, "How about we surrender all our ammunition, including the clips in our guns. Don't get me wrong, this isn't me trying to buck your authority, sir…" She's quick to add to Mr. Bouncer man, "But weapons are just as much of a commodity right now as Cubits used to be. It'da been loathe to give you my purse pre-apocolypse."
Penelope snorts, one hand gripping the rifle strap slung across her body — everything in her posture and expression conveying Not. Bloody. Likely. She opens her mouth to say what are probably those exact words — but stops herself again. With a disconsolate sigh, she shuts her mouth and looks to Oberlin. She does not want to part with her weapon, but she'll follow the leader.
Haeleah tries not to look too nervy as she gets a better look at the folks they've met up with. Though a skeptical look is exchanged with Penelope. Rough crowd. She will also follow Oberlin's lead when it comes to their weapons. Though she's certainly going to wait for an order to let go of hers.
Stavrian's attention is torn to the hospital surroundings rather than the people as they get in here. The Ascelpian banner, the wrecked foyer. It makes his brows twitch together, this sight of destruction hitting a little close to his heart than labs and coffee shops. He draws in slow breath through his nose, eyes flickering to Oberlin at that surrender of guns request.
Oberlin himself shrugs. He hesitates a little, but looks around at the sheer numbers. "I'm guessing that if we refuse, it'll probably be some brand of bad." He sighs. "Fine. Careful, though. We've got other resources. Let's just be friends." He nods as he unslings his rifle and hands it over to the man for collection.
"Good move. Don't worry, we don't steal from the living." The big guy grins a grin that is a bit too unsavory, possibly for calculated effect. "Dunno what Butcher wants, but if we were going to shoot you all it would have happened. Now, watch your asses and you'll be fine. Butch, take 'em to see the Man when you're done." He shouts at a pimply-faced kid who looks like he may have been a poster child for substance abuse. "Yo Carter! Get your ass up there and tell The Baron he's got guests. Don't want to interrupt him when he's working without warning." With that, the man waits patiently to collect the other weapons and stows them one by one in a nearby box.
Once this is all done, Butcher and her crew will lead the group further into the dilapidated hospital.
Penelope gives up her weapon with visible reluctance, but she does hand it over. This done, she shoves her hands in her pockets and shifts her weight uneasily, eyes tracking from sketchy hoodlum to shifty thug, taking in the rough crowd as the group moves on.
Every now and then a less 'thug'-seeming person is spotted. But, this seems to be the exception, rather than the rule.
Sawyer holds up a finger before she relinquishes her guns to the armbanded brethren. Sawyer fishes around in one of the myriad of pockets these suits come with and ends up pulling out a tube of lipstick. Why in Hades that made it into her gear is anyone's guess beyond sometimes a girl just needs her creature comforts. She smears it on quickly and expertly without the aid of a mirror and ends up kissing each of her weapons (rifle and handgun) before relinquishing them. "There. Now you know which ones are mine." She tells the guerilla collecting the guns.
Haeleah hands over her weapon with as little /visible/ hesitation as possible, though the tight set of her jaw suggests she isn't happy to part with it. Dark eyes flit over the people they've found themselves with again. Trying to get a bead on things like the age, gender and socio-economic split. Still lots of thug. OK, then.
The Baron. Stavrian glances at the man using that particular title, then back to Oberlin and the gang. After a long moment he too hands over his rifle and sidearm, somewhat stiffly. His hands make an awkward search for somewhere to be, pockets not seeming appropriate. Nor folding the arms like a defensive teenager. Finally he settles for folding his hands behind his back in a slouched parade rest — what would be parade rest if his feet were the right width apart. His forearm rests on the side of the medical pack settled on his hip, and his blue eyes remain alertly watchful.
The two Marines and Niobe are also disarmed in turn, although with less aplomb than Sawyer and her lipstick. Walker really hesitates, but does so, looking extremely disconcerted and shooting Oberlin a dirty look behind his back. Still, she complies. And with that, the little group progresses into the converted hospital. The place looks like it's been mostly stripped of supplies and has taken some hits. Still, though, it stands. For how long? Rows of cots are set up in a makeshift barracks, there are some locked storerooms, but to be frank, the whole operation seems straightforward and the Colonial version of Kosher.
Butcher leads the pack calmly as she chats, "So, you're gonna meet the Baron. The last days have been pretty hard on him, but remember - he's the best we got. Everyone in this place owes this man our lives. Maybe you will too, one day." She glances back over her shoulder as they walk down a ramp to the hospital's administrative offices, and she knocks on the door of one.
The door is opened by an older, grey-haired man with a matching white beard, long features, and is dressed in what looks like a nice suit that's seen better days. It's pinstriped. "Ah, Ms. Butcher. What have you brought me?" He asks, squinting on the other side of the doorway.
"Colonial Fleet. We were in the neighborhood, Mister Baron?" Oberlin begins tentatively as he looks about. He simply blinks at the man. "Thank you for not shooting at us."
Sawyer smiles when the door is open and they're greeted by The Baron. How could she not? He looks like someone's grandfather. Of course she doesn't exactly relax, but her expession is genuine. "Sorry we didn't bring a casserole…" Gets tacked on to the end of Oberlin's greeting.
Stavrian doesn't quite 'relax', per se, when they come up on the older man in the busted suit. A sagittarian is not so quickly put at ease, even when a physical threat seems low. The corners do betray just a hint of surprise in the way they subtly twitch, chin coming as he inhales and slowly lets out the breath. "Sir." First word he's said since the alley — it lacks the military snap it would have if addressing Oberlin. It's to the Baron, with a layman's sort of soft formality. His lips thin a little, and he reflexively glances the man over to see if he looks to be in decent health. Can't help it, the guy looks rode hard.
"Umm…thanks for meeting with us," Haeleah says. Sounding unsure what /else/ to say, but might as well take a stab at good manners.
Oh, The Baron, he looks — worn, tired, chewed up, but strangely vital. He smiles a smile that displays a full assortment of teeth. "Come on in, Butcher. The rest of you too, — 'fleet. And it's not 'Mister,' I apologize for my manners." Retreating into the office, the older man waves the rest of them in. Butcher is the only member of the militia who accompanies the Colonials. This is an office which is a bit beat up, full of books, reference manuals, some supplies, and odds and ends. And a single pistol sitting in a chair. Not his chair. He studiously avoids it, though, and sits on down in his own. He gestures to a couch and nother folding seat nearby. "Sorry for the lack of seats. But anyway, my name is Doctor Raymond Barron. Welcome to District Three. Now, what is it you are looking for?"
"Lt. Calvin Oberlin. Battlestar Cerberus. This is my team." Oberlin states, a bit surprised at the man for some reason or other, as he fully heads on in. He remains standing. "The rest of them can speak for themselves, I guess. But we're here for — looking for supplies. And survivors. Looks like we've found something."
Sawyer has no qualms about taking one of the spaces on the couch, sinking into the cushions with a happy little sigh at being off her feet. "Sawyer Averies." She raises her hand, giving a little twiddle of her fingers. "I don't know about the rest, but I'm just pleased as punch we've found someone alive down here. Hope is hard to come by, and we'll take what little we can get. I take it there are…other districts? So there are more? People, I mean." She has yet to think to take a picture of Doctor Barren, but maybe it would be impolite just yet.
"Haeleah Parres," the young woman introduces herself, for her part. "Parres, not Paris. She's Paris. Penelope Paris, that is." A gesture to said Penelope. The joke seems funnier when she's nervous, so she'll get to running it into the ground. "We're engineers. We saw signs but we didn't know for sure anybody was alive in the city. Your people seem to be in pretty good shape." Thuggishness notwithstanding. In spite of the still-semi-tense situation, there's some happiness in her tone about that.
Stavrian seems hesitant to say anything else, tongue skirting over his lower lip. Well, if Haeleah's willing to… "Junior Lieutenant Jesse Stavrian, sir. Physician Assistant." Not an engineer, it's lonely over here.
Penelope simply inclines her head to the man civilly, but says nothing. She's got Haeleah to play Miss Congeniality, and her fellow engineer is flashed a wry smile. She takes in the office in darts and glances, always returning to Barron, the central curiosity. It's as though she finds him particularly exotic and puzzling — which she well might, given the circumstances and the setting.
"Aha! A P.A.! Careful, I may have to steal this one." Barron's exclamation is exuberant, if feeling a little strained. "I ran a clinic, but now this hospital. I never imagined that upward career mobility would end up like this." He waves a hand as he reclines in his seat. "Of course, this is not really a hospital anymore. But we do work, here. Tending the sick. While we can." He turns about to study the other folks present. "Miss Averies, I am afraid that Three might be the lonliest number. There are other survivors we have seen, but they lack a certain sense of…civility. Not like our people here." He beams a bit proudly at Butcher. "Lieutenants, all of you. And —" The two marines introduce themselves in turn after being prompted, and he displays the same amount of civility. "So, I take it you all want to discuss business? You are welcome to stay here but I warn you — we are going on nighttime lockdown soon. You may stay or you may return tomorrow. Night — night isn't safe."
Sawyer has, of course, a million questions for the good Doctor, but she's wise enough to shut her yap so as to not steal up what little time they have remaining before this ominous 'lock down' occurs. She looks to Oberlin, obediantly quiet, while he makes his ruling on staying here at the hospital encampment, or trying to scoot back to their own lair until sunrise.
Stavrian actually manages half a smile for a fellow medicine man. He glances between Oberlin, Sawyer, and the Baron and softly clears his throat. "Sir, if we do stay, I can give some assistance to their sick and injured. If that's alright with you." 'You' to both men, eyes flickering between them. "Goodwill can surely go both ways."
A glance towards Sawyer, and Oberlin too, has a million unasked questions. But he just settles for one. An odd one. "Do you believe in the Gods, Doctor?" An apologetic glance to Butcher, and his head snaps back towards the Doc after a consensus glance to the others. "We can help out. I'm assuming we're all on the same side here."
Sawyer pipes up then after Stavrian. "I'd like to stay as well. I'd be remiss to pass up on this chance to get a first hand account of life on the ground since the…incident."
Haeleah looks sidelong at Stavrian before offering, though with less enthusiasm, "There anything you need fixed? I mean, not like there are parts a'plenty, but I can try. Thanks for the hospitality." If nothing else, she is very, very curious about these people.
The older gentleman nods, steepling his fingers. "That would be much appreciated, Lieutenant. And you all. I'm sure we can go into explanations later after I go make my rounds. Butcher will show you to your bunks, and I can personally guarantee your safety is entirely entwined with ours. So long as you behave yourselves. But Colonial Fleet — I cannot believe that you are still out there. I'll — " he hesitates, an unreadable lok on his face. "Yes, Lieutenant. I believe in the Gods. Maybe we sent each other to each other. But now we have to do the legwork ourselves. There is much you can do to help us, and I promise it will not go unrewarded."
The Sagittarian's expression turns rather tough to read as the LT and the Doctor trade words on the gods. No comment from Stavrian, at least…not right now. Perhaps later. He glances at Haeleah and Sawyer, then back to the two other men with a small nod. "Whatever is needed, sir. Thank you." The soft-spoken medic scratches the side of his neck and loosely folds his arms now, hands awkward without either a rifle or something medically useful in them. He's still not quite 'relaxed', make no mistake, but he's not a twitchy mess. Or at least he's hiding it well.
"We can likely find parts," Penelope chimes in, nodding at Haeleah's idea. "I'm sure there's a lot around here that can be repurposed for repairs." She doesn't look particularly comfortable with the idea of staying, herself… but Stavrian and Hae-Hae's willingness to help has, perhaps, shamed her a bit. "Anyways. If we can have a look about, sir, we can probably salvage a great deal."
Barron's mention of 'gods' earns a slight twinge of a smile on Oberlin's part and he visibly relaxes. "Um, right. The Mraines and I can probably help out with some maps of the area. We've done some reconaissance elsewhere which might be beneficial. But we can negotiate this stuff out when we're all a little more fresh. Thanks for the hospitality, though. We just want to let you know — there /are/ survivors, and we /are/ fighting back. You aren't alone." He glances about at his little crew. Still a bit tense but resigned for the moment that they aren't going anywhere.
~Fin