PHD #209: Round Two?
Round Two?
Summary: Marines arrest one of their own.
Date: 23 Sep 2041 AE
Related Logs: Blanket Party
Constin Lunair Lysander Rian NPC 
Enlisted Marine Berths - Deck 6
Designed specifically to house a small Marine contingent, this berthing is one of the smallest on the ship. The bunks are arranged in standard formation in the classic over-under configuration and lockers dividing each one. However, the lockers here are a bit larger than most elsewhere on the ship to accommodate the bulky combat gear associated with the security details of the crew that lives here. Tables are spread out for use through the area with their standard allotment of chairs.
Post-Holocaust Day: #209

(Once again, special thanks to Argento and Leyla for NPCing)

The time is about 16:30- a half hour past the changing of marine shifts. This has allowed the shift stepping down time to check arms and head back to the berths to change out of uniform for the off-duty hours ahead. Some are changing into off duty dress for a run to the Galley or Rec room, others are bound for the head. The changing of shifts truly is the busiest time in the Berths.

As usual, Verne starts to head for the galley after putting away some things in his locker. Big guy, could be 300 pounds, eats five meals a day. Anyone who's paying attention can probably see that he's hiding a limp, though he seems to get around the ship and make it through his shifts just fine.

PFC Hannigan is just stepping to the berthing, letting the door hang open, to cover the people coming in in a line behind him. He's bunked just a few down from Verne, so it's no surprise that he passes the guy on the way, "Gimpy. Restricted duty?" There's a faintly unpleasant air to the man, but then, Hannigan is never really pleasant.

Off-duty, finally, has Sergeant Lysander entering into the berths in order to reclaim his life back. "Oh, c'mon, keep it movin' Hannigan - you smell like goat-ass," he groans it out with an ounce of distaste. He enters a handful of steps behind that of the private and only offhandedly looks around the familiar surroundings before heading for his bunk. It's the most familiar out of it all with the man prepping to remove all of his marine ornamentation.

The hatchway behind Hannigan stands open for several seconds before approaching boots can be heard from the Deck Six beyond. The already crowded berths must remain crowded a moment later as a familiar face fills the hatchway. Or rather, Constin might be recognizable, if not from the bruises which heavily darken his face, disappearing at the collar of his duty tans. The big sergeant is moving rather stiffly as he steps across the threshold into the berths with a slow look turned around, blocking the hatch for a long moment.

Private Verne grunts in reply to Hannigan, "Naw. Healthy as a horse." He haw-haw-haws at Lysander's comment about Hannigan's smell, clapping the sergeant on the shoulder. "You do smell like goat ass, Hannigan, like you ain't showered all week. I'm gon' grab some grub." The big hungry private starts making his way towards the hatch and for a moment is squared off with Constin. "C'mon, Sarge," he grumbles. "You're blocking the door."

"Wouldn't know, Sir. I don't frak goats." There's clearly, from the tone of his voice, meant to be the implied, 'But you do, if you know what they smell like', aimed in the SGT's direction. And he moves it along at the same pace he was moving, heading to his bunk to pick up his things before he heads towards, well, the head. Verne he doesn't respond to at all.

Oddly enough, behind Constin are… more Marines. Lunair's likely only visible if one looks for a scarf, legs or a shiny pin. … was it such a good idea to stand BEHIND the guy at least half a foot taller? Maybe not, but she's not about to stop Sarge. For now, she is quiet. She simply watches.

Private Verne, as the one closest to the hatch, has the clearest view of the passage on the outside of the Berths. Behind Constin is a fireteam of marines in battledress blacks, surrounding Lunair and behind those is the Company S2.

Constin completes his slow look around the Berths, looking from Lysander to Hannigan and Vern with the words, "Hello again, boys." Narrow blue eyes (the right one still narrowed further by lingering swelling) fix on Verne, glancing down and back up with the flat question. "How's the knee?"

Lysander grins some to Verne and then looks back over in Hannigan's direction. "Funny, heard your mom does - thought it ran in the family," calls out Lysander over his shoulder while shedding himself of initial shirt in order to find a spare. He pauses though and inclines his head to the side to note the entrance of Constin and he tips his chin respectfully before returning to his things. Preoccupied, he misses a lot.

Indeed. There's quite a few behind Constin, including those strange, dark purple eyes. For now, she nods at the others, content to let the Sarge start. Allowing for vengeance perhaps? What an odd cake Lunair is. She does consider Verne intently though. Hmm.

Verne slowly backs up as he sees the whole company of marines behind Constin. The goofy grin on his face is replaced with a frown. "Don't know whatcha mean, Sergeant," he says with a gulp. He resists glancing at Hannigan, but can't resist being a wise ass. "How're yer balls?"

Hannigan looks over, as Constin arrives, looking the big man up and down, before he goes back to his locker, pulling out towel and shampoo, soap too. Then he's turning back around, passing Lysander on the way, "Nah. She never much cared for goats. It was horses she couldn't never get enough of." With that, he's heading towards the hatch, only to be drawn to a halt by the Marines gathering.

"Yeah, I bet," Constin drawls back to Verne, looking aside to Hannigan as the other man approaches the hatch, but his narrow stare returns to the larger private. "Private Marlon Verne, you are hereby detained under section Three-Seven-Seven of the Uniform Code of Colonial Justice. You are ordered to stand down for arrest," he states, cold and flat. "But I'd take it as a personal favor if you tried to resist."

Lunair's eyebrows have found new homes on her forehead. Is … this how the other half lives as it were? Oh well. It's their home. Their rules. For now, she is a mute testament behind Constin, suggesting that allowing the man to return the beatings might not be the wisest decision if one values in tact bones. She doesn't even protest. It might be more the S2's call, but truthfully, could she blame him? Hardly. For now, Constin is at the hatch and a couple of officers with a fire time in blacks.

"Horse-frakkin' mothe-" the rest of what Lysander would like to say is cut off by him noting the Lieutenant in the background and so he instead lowers his gaze before looking aside. He leans over and grabs hold of a chronometer and contents himself with sliding that over his left wrist before bringing himself back to the others. Things get horribly serious all of a sudden and thus the sergeant begins to remove his watch and place it blindly back aside. He steps away from his bunk and moves to stand a short distance away from Verne, with a glancing look in Hannigan's general direction.

Hannigan is still standing, with all of his supplies, still waiting patiently for the hatch to get cleared so he can pass through. Lysander will get no more of a reply from the PFC, nor will Constin get any sort of reaction. It's just a game of hurry up and wait.

Verne stares into Constin's eyes for a full minute. Would love Round Two with this guy, but he knows it's not the time. He hopes there'll be something to eat in the brig. With a heavy sigh, he shrugs his shoulders. "Okay," he grumbles. Sorry to disappoint.

"Face the bulkhead with your hands behind your back," Constin instructs Verne flatly, returning the stare from the shorter, but heavier private. Drawing the cuffs from his duty belt, the others present are ignored while securing the prisoner is undertaken.

"And please keep insults about that sort of things to a minimum, I'd rather you not get slugged for insulting someone's parents and/or sexual habits," Lunair notes quietly to Lysander. She doesn't seem overly harsh, but - with tensions as they are. She doesn't seem eager to push it - Indeed, Lunair's a fairly loose and gentle hand when it comes to handling enlisted matters. "… At least, at this sort of time." That? Is vague. It's a very gentle chide, to be mindful of one's rank. Other than that, she is silent and watchful.

With Verne being taken under arrest, Hannigan takes a step forward, if only to be able to angle his head and see if the hatch is clear yet. "We free to go, Lieutenant?" That to Lunair, whom his craning allowed him to see, and the sound of her voice to confirm. "Wouldn't mind a trip to the showers. Seems I'm offending a few people."

Verne stands at parade rest with his hands behind his back, and turns to face the bulkhead. He has to tighten his lips to suppress a series of cracks about toaster bitches and Constin's balls that are surfing through his brain at the worst possible of moments. An amused grin appears on his face as Lunair chides Lysander about rudeness.

"Right-Sir," even if the title is added to in hindsight, Lysander still readily answers and his eyes flicker briefly in the direction of the Lieutenant before his attention is directed forward and held aloft towards the arresting. He had been looking forward to something more engaging.

Rian steps in from the corridor. Still in her marine blacks and body armour she has the helmet tucked under her arm. Dark brown bangs cling to her brow and cheeks with sweat from her on duty assignment. Tired eyes make a sweep of the room and grow wider with every person she takes in, "what the frak?" She mutters to no one in particular and dirty boots take her away from the door and the arresting marines.

Two clicks of the cuffs around Verne's wrists and the prisoner is secured. A stiff hand between the shoulder blades steers the private toward the hatchway and the fireteam of combat dressed marines awaiting. "Lance, check this fella," Constin growls to one of the marines. Hannigan's request to get along his way draws a tight sidelong look from the sergeant, who simply nods once.

Sigh. Potty mouths everywhere! Lunair just grunts softly. She's likely given up on patrolling profanity these days. She quirks a brow at the amused grin from Verne. If she's curious, she says nothing. "Yes, permission granted," Lunair states simply. She maintains a quietly dignified air in the face of it all. Might've been better off sitting atop a horse gazing dolefully at those below. But those days are gone and ponies don't handle space travel well. There's a pause at Rian. "It will be explained as needed, an arrest is underway," She notes, not offering any further details for now, "However, you have permission to go about your business as needed." And indeed, she'll move out of the way. As for Lysander, she simply smiles politely. Thank you. Though, the smile fades after a second. The Lance will hustle through promptly to check the fellow for any weapons, be they shanks, guns, or what have you.

"Ack," Verne complains as he gets pushed towards the hatchway, and stumbles forward. His eyes find the Lance addressed by Constin (or was it a guy named Lance, or was it Lance Corporal Lance?), and gives him an impatient look as if to say, if you're going to search me, search me.

"Thank you, Sir." That, to Lunair, as Vern is moved about, and the Lieutenant and her black-clothed minions…erm…the fire team, plus one Sergeant handle the detainment. Another, "Sir," and an answering nod, to Constin, as he too gives the okay for the short, squat PFC to try to get through the hatch and towards the head. And lookit how good he's being, he only looks back to stare at Lunair's backside for like…a second, tops.

Lysander has promised to tone down on the language, so he's left to simple little half-smile packages to be delivered to everyone. In the meantime, he folds his arms over his chest and finds a comfortable position to stand and lord over things but with Verne being led away the sergeant turns over and aims to sit at his bunk. "You're the late one this time, Rian."

A quick patdown (as per procedure, the full search will be undertaken in the Brig prior to incarceration) and Verne is escorted out of the Berths with proper CMC efficiency. Constin lets out a slow breath through flared nostrils and turns to march out the hatch right behind the pair of black clad marines who each take hold of one of Verne's elbows. Not much for chat tonight, is the drill sergeant.

Rian just watches the scene, eyes bouncing curiously from one Marine to the other, not often you see an arrest go down in bunks. Well, at least for her anyway. A short glance up to the Sergeant, face showing no sign of amusement in his comments today. "I didn't know there was a start time to my rack, sir." She talks to him over her shoulder as she starts to remove her body armour at her locker once the troops leave that is.

Lunair is among the silent procession. She doesn't seem to notice any stares directed her way. She's too busy making sure no one gets shivved, stabbed, blown up, set on fire, sold for cigs, or generally causes trouble to ranks above or below. She's normally a pretty loose hand but things seem a bit different today.

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