| Out of the Frying Pan |
| Summary: | Captain Sabaudia's identity is finally confirmed and she is able to leave the refugee camp in the Hangar Bay. |
| Date: | 2041.03.06 |
| Related Logs: | n/a |
| Players: |
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--[ Hangar Deck - Starboard ]--------------[ Midship - Battlestar Cerberus ]--
This Hangar Bay is filled with boxes, crates and other various supplies that are needed throughout the ship. Most have been moved to one end and lashed with tarps to keep them out of the way. The place has gone from extra ship storage on one end and the ability to house over 450 people on the other end. Whatever could be made into cots has been set up like a huge barracks. Some areas have been made more presentable with a few items that belong to the person holding onto their small area in this world.
Marines guard this area 24/7 and food is brought in cafeteria style, feeding people out of vats and buckets as they line up with their plates. One area has been tarped off to the side, that holds canvas showers and sinks. The 'Head' in this area has to be cleaned daily since it is a temporary military bathroom setup, due to there is no way to flush it out through pipes.
-=[ Condition Level: 2 - Danger Close ]=--------------------------------------
Four hundred and fifty-odd souls fill the Starboard Hangar Deck - in sight, sound, and smell. Some are restless, while others are listless; some despair, while others crack jokes and try to make light of things. There's not much else that can be done, other than to cast eyes toward the Marine contingent slowly but inexorably working through their identification and clearance.
Amongst this sea of humanity is one Elisabeta Jezebel Sabaudia. She was one of the last to make it alive through the airlocks, and suffered an unhealthy smattering of bumps and bruises for her trouble. A leg injury was checked, early on, and deemed a sprain. As for her identification - well, that's an interesting one. Claimed to be a Captain with the JAG Corps, no less. It takes time, and a lot of manifest-checking to put all the pieces together and provide a positive ID, but it finally clears. The Captain was due to board the Cerberus after the Anchorage Ball, her worldly possessions already checked and aboard, patiently awaiting her in a storage bay.
The intercom horn sounds and crackles to static before Tillman's voice comes over it. "Ladies and Gentlemen. Officers and Enlisted. Civilians berthed on this ship. Stop what you're doing and take a moment. This is Captain Tillman, ship's Tactical Officer. Tonight I'm addressing you to bear some news." There's a short pause. "We all know what happened at Picon. Some have heard rumors about Virgon being hit as well. We've tried to re-establish radio contact with all of our standard protocols to anyone. Nothing worked. With the help of some diligent work by the Deck and Wing, our Raptors were fixed and today the last of them returned home from their recons. What they found is what many of us feared.
"Our Colonies. Our families. Our homes. They're gone. Picon was not the only target, though it was more heavily hit than most. All twelve received strategic high-yield nuclear strikes. The devastation is unevenly drawn across all the colonies but none escaped with.." He pauses, clearing his throat. A forced breath before the man continues. "-None escaped with what anyone would call 'minimal damage'. Not even the fleet. Our most accurate estimates by intelligence and analysis indicate that most of the Colonial Navy has met similar ends. Tomorrow we begin our new tasking, starting with the wreckage our brothers and sisters left behind in space.
"Tomorrow we are jumping out of our relatively secure position here in Uram. We leave the security provided by the dying star nearby to visit the graveyard of our comrades. This graveyard is in the orbit of Virgon and should provide us the cover to stay hidden from the enemy patrols for a short time." A pause. Tillman keeps his voice slow but there's a building anger to it. "Tomorrow we will begin a search for any survivors near Virgon as doing so on the colonies is currently impossible. We will begin to pick up the pieces. We will gather our resources. We will figure out how to exploit what we have and what they don't. We will begin to take the fight to them. The Cylons think they can steamroll our race into a genocide. We are going to make them regret ever thinking they could. Tomorrow, we begin prep for offensive operations. We are going to have the honor of fighting for our families, friends, and our race. Trust your shipmates. Follow your training and listen to your senior officers and enlisted. We have some tough road ahead but we can and will attempt vengeance for what they have done. The memories of our fallen demand it. So say we all."
Stepping onto the starboard hanger, Demos strides purposefully up to the Staff Sergeant heading the contingent currently guarding the hanger. She speaks softly to the man, then listens to his reply. He points toward one section, then allows Demos to pass. She salutes and moves past the barricade. As she approaches a specific section, she parts her lips to speak. That is when the intercom crackles to life and the voice of Captain Tillman begins making the announcement that none of the colonies have survived. The Marines stiften behind her, their grips on their weapons tightening. Demos' hand lifts to a sparkle of gold lying just beneath her uniform. The announcement goes on and she lowers her gaze briefly in mourning for those lost. Finally, she whispers, "So say we all."
There are nervous whispers here and there; whispers that rise in horror as the enormity of what has happened begins to sink in. Demos steps forward, lifting a piece of paper with a photograph on it. She compars the image to the faces around her until she finds a match or near match. "Captain?"
Sleep-rumpled hair instead of a prim military style; blood-spattered ballgown instead of JAG livery; beyond that, there she is. Ms. Sabaudia, moments away from reclaiming her officer's commission, leans with her head back against a crate, green eyes staring through the Hangar Bay to some unknown point beyond. She shows no sign of having heard the announcement, nor reacts to the swell of alarm and horror cresting all around her. When her rank is called, her eyes snap back into focus, and slice down to Demos. "Captain Elisabeta Sabaudia, JAG Corps," she affirms, voice tired but crisp. "That would be me."
Despite the growing alarm spreading like wildfire around her, Demos comes to attention and snaps a salute for the JAG officer, "Sir. If you will come with me, please?" The situation is not lost to her, but orders are orders. At least for the moment. Stepping back, she lifts a hand to gesture toward the baracade of Marines between them and the exit. "Do you need any assistance, sir? The medics mentioned a leg injury?"
"I was the filling of a Marine-Civilian sandwich," says the Captain, as she struggles to her feet. If a hand up is offered, she'll take the assistance without reservation; if Demos's hands stay prudently close to weapons, she can stand on her own. "All rumours to the contrary, it was not as I… expected." Bone-dry humour. Between it and her accent, it wouldn't be very hard imagining her reacting to the destruction of the Colonies with an, 'Oh, bother.' She's limping heavily, but can make steady progress on her own. Barefoot, carrying a pair of expensive dancing shoes with a broken heel.
Demos does indeed offer the hand up, her other hand near her weapon. Curtisy should not be lost, if at all possible. Her smile is quick, tight, gone again. Turning, she lends an arm to assist as the walk back toward the Marines is managed. "No, it was not as any of us expected." She pauses for a moment in speach if not in motion. "A Marine-Civilian sandwich. I have been part of those as well. They are not at all comfortable. Do you wish me to call for a chair, sir?" Her gaze flickers around, touching a civilian here, a cluster there. The shock of the announcement has not yet faded and people are still, primarily, mourning. "Just a little further, if you can." Although the situation is clearly tense, the MP's tone remains calm, conversational and while she does not dally, she is not rushing either.
The offered arm is accepted gratefully, and speeds the hobbling procession along. Does she need a chair, though? "Only if you need me to walk faster… I'm sorry. Your name?" Captain Sabaudia doesn't stop limping along, but does glance over, thin brows raising over moss-green eyes in polite query. Manners, wherever possible, indeed. "I understand if there's need to rush. The announcement has things a little close in here, doesn't it?" As if on cue, a sudden keening wail pierces through the distressed murmurs, breaking away just as suddenly to wracking sobs.
Demos considers for a moment, "No, I do not think that rushing is a particularly good idea, sir." She offers the ghost of a smile that does not touch her eyes, "I was offering in deference to your sprain." The hazel eyes flicker down, then back up again. A slow blush begins and she clears her throat, "My apologies, Captain. I am Sergeant Phaedra Demos. I am squad leader of Fireteam Alpha." That she is a military policeman is clear enough by the band encircling her upper arm. "Welcome aboard, Captain."
"No need to apologize, Sergeant Demos." Sabaudia's voice is starting to sound faintly strained, but she shows no sign of slowing. Stoic. "A pleasure to meet you. Would that we could have met under brighter circumstances." She wobbles to a halt at the Marine-guarded threshhold dividing refugees from ship's occupants and takes a moment to look back, then down to her ruined ballgown, then up again. Marking the moment, perhaps. "And… thank you. As absurd as it is to say. Thank you."
When they reach the Marine baracade, Demos pauses to sign some paperwork. It looks oddly reminiscent of an invoice for goods transfered. The military and their paperwork. She nods to the squad's leader, then returns her attention to her charge, "The pleasure, Captain is mine." Her accent is not Caprican, though the measure of refinement in her tone cold be. Once more, she offers her arm, "I, too am sorry that the circumstances were not as fortuitous as they could have been." Her gaze flashes back to the civilians in their misery. Pressing her lips together, she inclines her head either to the Captain or the masses beyond the Marine line. "Oh, you are welcome, Captain." A blink and she offers that wan ghost of a smile once more, "Shall I take you to quarters? Or to your office?" The bloodied ballgown and broken shoes are noted, but she does not comment. Training or breeding will not allow such a gross failure of courtesy.
"My first offworld stationing," the Captain murmurs, sweeping her gaze up and around and back to her stalwart MP escort. "If I had known coming aboard would be this exciting, I might have chosen more practical footwear." The corners of Sabaudia's mouth lift in a thin smile that doesn't reach her eyes. To each their own coping mechanisms. "I'd like to see my home for the forseeable future, if I may, Sergeant. After the emergency pallets, the bunks will be feather-beds."
One of the MP's brows rises slightly and she shakes her head, "Your luck is." She lets a beat pass to mark the ending of that sentence, then adds, "But, whether it is good or bad, I could not say." The arm is again offered and the Marine MP gestures with her free hand toward the exit, "Right this way then, sir. Your luxury class cabin awaits." While the humor might be a bit flippant, she speaks with a quiet, calm assurance, her tone low enough so that even the Marines standing nearby cannot hear. Would not due to have the civilians think that the Officers were quartered in a five-star hotel room, even if mirth heals.
<Fade for the sake of sleep.>