PHD #198: Sting Like A Bee
Sting Like A Bee
Summary: A massive brawl in the Rec Room. Nuff said.
Date: 12 Sep 2041 AE
Related Logs: Coll Dying, specifically - Clinging to Life; Accidents Happen; Going Through Personal Effects
Constin McQueen Devlin Alessandra Psyche Samuel Sawyer NPC 
Rec Room
This huge room spans quite a lot of floor space, the support beams crisscrossing at even points throughout the room. The two sides are divided fairly between the Enlisted and Officers with an unseen line more or less running down the center of the room. A couple pool and card tables sit in no-man's land with a series of regular mess tables at the rear of the room, nearest a counter full of minor refreshments like coffee and bags of chips. Magazines and reading material are spread out over the couched seating areas and a few televisions are set-up with a couple of video game systems made available.
Post-Holocaust Day: #198

The Rec Room is fairly busy at this time of evening. Lots of people are sitting around, drinking. A little bit of celebrating. Moods run the gamut of high and low. Most people look like they've already knocked back a few drinks. There's a big gaggle of Marines towards the back that have probably been here for awhile, judging by the look in their eyes. There's low mutterings about Cylons and some specific names: Constin and Coll.

Constin hasn't been here long. The sergeant has had time to settle into a chair at that most futile of things: a triad table without a game of triad going on. Sporting a scattering of fresh scars across his arms and peeking out the edges of his service tank, and a trio of dogtags around his neck in place of the standard issue two, Elf throws back the first drink and pours the second without blinking. Low mutterings have yet to reach his ear.

The group throws random glances towards the Sergeant off by himself, but one of them makes some low comment that gets a chuckle. They all sorta glance over at once with wolfish smiles and then look back to their own drinks. Finally, a short blonde Staff Sergeant female lifts her voice. "Hey Constin. Heard you had some problems with gunfire on the surface. We were just chattin about it. Care to join? Looking for a first-person intel source on this one." SSG Boelyn: She's younger than him, too, but the woman has all the attitude and bite of a junkyard dog.

Constin doesn't look over immediately as his name is called out. Instead, he focuses on the shot glass in front of him, and throws it back. "Nope," is the narrow-eyed sergeant's single word of response, given without so much as a sidelong look. the bottle is picked up, and a third glass is poured with a slow, deep breath.

The Staff Sergeant sips on her glass of whiskey, more or less holding court over the other enlisted that have gathered around her. "Aw c'mon, Sarge. Don't wanna talk about what happened? We're just a little curious about how you managed to get shot all the time. Banks, here, was sayin that it might have somethin' to do with the person you were standin next to part of the time. Curious little theory, that. Know what I mean?" That gets a few dark chuckles from the Corporals and Privates sitting around. There's about a dozen of them between the two tables.

Constin snorts once, still not favoring Boulyn and her boys with a look. "I get shot for the same reason I get medals, Boelyn. Because while you and Banks sit around coming up with with 'curious little theories'," disdain colors his voice with the emphasized words. "Me and those like me actually get shit done."

Debriefed, debugged, disarmed, and freshly showered after the insanity of earlier, Psyche meanders in with one of her precious bottles of mid-shelf rum dangling from her fingers. Apparently, she don't need no stinking glassware. From the bottle will be just fine with her. Take the unpleasant edge of the teeth-setting adrenaline overdose of combat that's so slow to fade.

Seeing Constin sitting there by his lonesome, she frowns and moves to join him, sliding into a seat without so much as a by-your-leave. At least she makes no attempt to use him as a foot-rest or anything. "Hey, Elfkin," she greets him softly. "Listen, I know it's belated, but… I'm so sorry. About Coll. I really liked her." She glances at the other Marines, then back to the big one whose table she's invaded.

Looking slightly winded and pallid from his in-flight ordeal, a freshly-showered McQueen pads in in his off-duty tanks, his hands bunched in his pockets with thick, heavily knit brows framing his eyes. He slips in on through the half-open hatch and mumbles something incoherent before it's cut off.

The resident civilian reporter was one of the first yanked off Saggitaron when it came time for the mass exodus, as such Sawyer's had some time to get squared away back on the Cerberus and she's once more back in her comfortable work attire. With sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and suspenders hanging down by her hips, she shoulders into the Rec Room just after a knot of others.

Devlin heads in looking less freshly-showered, since there's hardly room to get into the heads, packed as they are with pilots just off epic battlez. He carries a bottle of his own, and up-nods McQueen in greeting as he passes the other man, entering just after him. "Hey," he says by way of greeting, "Sounds like it was crazy out there today, huh?"

Boelyn's face slowly melts to something a little more sarcastic and closer to caustic. Big mouth, big ego. Easy to provoke. She watches a few more people move towards the burly Sergeant's table before she replies. "Real frakkin cute. Just means I care about preserving the lives of the men and women under me. I don't take up suicide missions like a crack addict with frenchfries at a dumpster. I also don't truck with toasters, though, either." A quick pause as she taps a finger to her glass. "That's some funny shit, isn't it?" The Staff Sergeant sneers. "Let's see how this all maps out, right? Now, the Cylons leave Sag. They've gone. For like, weeks. Nobody is screwing with us except for the SSLF. Then.. then Coll dies? And thirty six hours later.. who shows up? Jumping in damned near on top of us? The.." She seems to be searching her memory, making an expression for a few Marines to laugh at. "Yeah, that was the Cylons. Funny thing about downloadin, that I've heard. Let's you tell all your friends about where the enemy is. You know who the enemy is, right Sergeant?" She lofts her brow at him before taking another sip.

Constin flicks his eye up as Psyche jaunts over to join him. "Airy Fairy," the marine drawls back flatly to her initial greeting. As the pilot's belated sorrow is related, he simply voices, "Yeah," and throws back the third of his shots. The flat set of his expression twists into a nastier scowl as Boelyn fires back. "If you don't like suicide, Boelyn, you better think real long and hard before you say another word against Lauren Coll. Half this damn boat owes her their life, and so help me-" NOW he turns a look aside to fix a stare on the Staff Sergeant, "You keep spitting shit out your mouth and I will make damn sure you spit teeth out your ass tomorrow."

Samuel steps in from the corridor outside, looking around the room a bit thoughtfully for the moment. Looking a bit tired as well, as he studies the people present.

Psyche's big blue eyes snap from Constin to Boelyn, going from filled-with-gentle-concern to icy-frakking-disdain. "Excuse me. Does congenital retardation run in your family, or did you just win the genetic lottery?" And to the Staff Sergeant, "And you don't need to use quite that many words to convey that you're a drooling moron. In fact, it's implied. So use less air. The O2 scrubbers will thank you."

"Other than getting a gang-bang from 'bout five basestars and seeing some strange 'briefing-bait' Colonial ship dropping out of bloody nowhere and knocking those things around like toys." McQueen ventures in response to Devlin, his eyebrows waggling thick. He gives a bit of a weak shrug. "I dunno what to think. But 'crazy?' That's a good word for it. You can ask your girl there, she was bloody good out there. But then 'gain, she usually is." He winks briefly as he points over towards Psyche but doesn't comment beyond this, as the rather loud discussion going on in the rec room commands his attention. "Uh oh." He observes, astutely, eyeing Constin a second. And then Boelyn.

Coffee seems to be the order of the day, and the Journalist moves in that direction, past the milling marines and lounging air wingers. The mounting tension isn't easy to miss, and Sawyer slants a look in the direction of name slinging and accusation implication. Once her steaming hot cup of coffee is retrieved, she meanders closer to the argument with a wary sort of look in her eyes as if she's deciding which side of the line she'd be on, if shit hits the fan.

"Yeah, somebody said that ship was like… glowing green and purple, or something?" Devlin says to McQueen, shaking his head, "I don't know, the chatter on the deck about it is nuts, I can't make heads or tails. Maybe somebody'll get hands on the official report and we can find out." At the pointing, he turns and spots Psyche and grins back at McQueen, agreeing, "Ain't that the truth? But yeah, glad to see you made it back, man," he adds, reaching out to clap Queenie on the shoulder in a brief, friendly fashion, inviting, "Come have a drink with us?" and starting to head towards the table Bubbles and Constin occupy before the 'uh oh' and the arguing catch his ear. "Doesn't sound good," he mutters, though he heads that way anyhow. Sawyer gets a friendly smile as he passes.

"Oh! You mean the microwave with tits? Sorry, Sergeant. Got real confused there. Didn't know you could owe your life to a Cylon. Seems like they just prefer to, you know, genocide our race." Boelyn doesn't seem like she cares about Constin's stare. Its met and returned with just as much ice. She lifts her voice and glass to the rest of the room, which has dinned itself down to watch the face-off. "Anyone else here think they owe a toaster their lives? Anyone? I was just under the impression that we were supposed to get medals for plugging Cylons, not get shot for it. Oh! Wait." The Staff Sergeant fixes her eyes back on Constin. "You were pluggin a Cylon voluntarily. Didn't even need orders on that one, did you? Ain't been shot yourself, yet, either." Her vision barely flits a tick to look right into Psyche's eyes. "Stay out of this, bitch. We've already got one sympathizer identified at that table. Hate to think the officer corps might be dumb enough to back the Sergeant. Or were you bangin Coll, too? Heard she was into chicks." The Staff Sergeant downs the rest of her glass and reaches for the bottle while the rest of the Marines look on. All that bravado and joking? Its gone.

Constin sets his glass down hard on the table, and mutters to Psyche: "Stay out of it. S'the brig if you get involved." With those words the sergeant stands up without preamble, and turns toward Boelyn. Nostils flaring with a bullish snort, he doesn't delay steps toward the woman. "Everybody with her, get in line," Constin barks with the clarity universal to drill sergeants. "Everybody else, get out of the way."

Alessandra doesn't usually come here to drink, preferring the privacy of 'home' or the Obs Deck to spend her time boozing it up but between the berths feeling decidedly unhome-like and the other locale not being one she wants to spend time in, it's either here or locking herself into a random storage room. Deciding to try and be at least somewhat 'social', she picked the former option over the latter. Stepping quickly a place to sit, bottle in hand, she simply takes to hitting the liquor hard, not yet having caught on to the hostility that's taking place just yet.

"You were never down on Leonis, were you?" Samuel comments in Boelyn's direction as he moves over in the direction of the argument now, moving over to near Constin now. "It's not worth getting yourself in deep trouble, Sergeant…" he offers quietly. "Think she would have wanted that?" That last part added after a few moments of pause as he looks between the others for a few moments, frowning quite a bit now.

"Some days this shit doesn't make /any/ sense." McQueen's exasperated sigh slips out before he can really comment in response to Devlin. "And sometimes it makes too much. These witch hunts've been a bad idea ever since they opened that floodgate on the Admiral. Now look at this." He comes to a dead stop, maybe a few feet in front of the Nugget as he looks between him and Psyche. "Somehow I don' think getting a disciplinary report for busting some frakker in the cops will make Toast's day…" Eyes narrowed, he finally comments. "But yeah, that ship glowed, all right. Knocked the Cylons down like tenpins." He reaches upwards and brushes the back of his hand against his forehead.

Psyche laughs sweetly at the Staff Sergeant and flutters her lashes, though her smile has a rather unpleasant edge. "Lauren Coll wasn't a cylon, you insipid, fear-mongering, wall-eyed cunt," she states smoothly. A finger is curled in invitation, "But come a little closer, and I'll show you 'into chicks'." The invitation appears to be all about getting her boot into the other woman's rectal cavity. Not very porno — unless. Y'know. That's your thing.

Sawyer's whistle is sharp and shrill, and she's holding up her hands in sort of a capitulation gesture. "Wait wait wait, I just want to get this straight for the article I'm going to publish." She looks directly at Boleyn. "So you're accusing a decorated member of the Colonial fleet of treason, of being an enemy agent, and sabatoge without a lick of evidence other than circumstancial and a wild hair up your ass? Okay, just wanted to make sure I got it straight when I later commend this asshat over here…" A gesture to Constin. "For the beating you are about to receive. Carry on." As if they needed her permission.

Quite a few people in the room stand up with Constin's challenge. Some move for the door. Some move for Constin. Some move for Boelyn. Anyone's guess who has their loyalties in any one place. However, the Marines with Boelyn all rise at once - including the SSG. She takes a swig of the bottle and tosses it back onto the table, nearly tipping the liquor over. "Bring it, Sergeant." She can't be any taller than five-six. It might be hilarious if she didn't look like she had the wherewithall to put up a good fight and try to take him down. "Go ahead! Pick your frakkin sides! Side with a traitor and remember who the police are on this frakkin boat." And there crosses the line. She darts her expression towards Sawyer as the woman speaks up. She doesn't say anything but its apparent that Boelyn doesn't plan on letting Sawyer out of here anytime soon. The gaggles of Marines move to intercept the lone Sergeant. Boelyn is already making for Psyche, though. Throwdown time.

Tension is hard to miss and soon Alessandra's attention is drawn towards Constin and the others, her expression darkening swiftly upon seeing the Staff Sergeant and the others, Boelyn and the Corporal people she had the 'pleasure' of meeting the other day. Frowning, she drops the bottle, letting its contents spill while getting to her feet. "What the frak…" she grits out between clenched teeth, her fingers swiftly curling into fists. She just might be jumping the gun here but with how everyone's posturing…she probably is better off being prepared for a fight regardless. "Con," Allie yells, trying to get his attention without getting him to divide it too much, her voice raised mostly for the sake of letting him know she's there.

Constin's scowl is bent briefly by a short, bone-dry chuckle. "She'd be in the brig ahead of me," he mutters to Samuel's attempt at reasoning the big sergeant down. The steps continue right up until the first of Boelyn's boys comes within arm's reach. Allie's call, everyone else's words.. all of it bleeds together with the first punch.

Sawyer hitches her hip up on a table, keeping one foot on the ground and the other left to dangle as she takes a small notebook out of her pocket. Nonchalant as ever, even though the fur is starting to fly. "Someone want to make sure I have the spelling of this one's name right?" She indicates Boelyn with the tip of her pencil, "Something tells me that she's not going to be able to tell me when she's spitting teeth later. Is Douchebag one word or two?" Scribblescribblescribble. She's looking down, but her gaze keeps flicking back up repeatedly, just in case any wayward fists fly her way.

"Yeah, this place is nuts," Devlin is agreeing with McQueen before, "Whoa," he says as Psyche calls out Boelyn and then gets stepped to by her fellow, slight-taller blonde. "Shit," he mumbles, setting his bottle down on the floor out of the way and moving quickly to the pilot's side. "This is so not what I had in mind when I mentioned a threesome," he jokes, though his tone's a little tight. Would he hit a girl if she punched his girlfriend first? Maybe we will find out.

Psyche stands as Boelyn approaches — hey, it wasn't who she was taunting, but she's not about to be picky. They're all hatin'. "What the frak, I've never been in the brig before. Maybe they'll let me decorate." She uncaps her rum, holding a glittery, manicured finger up to the marine-on-intercept. "Just a second." She takes a swig from the bottle and sets it aside.

"Let me upgrade that. 'Stupid.' Not 'crazy.' 'Stupid' is more broad-ranging." McQueen says, with an exasperated sigh. "Y'know, if there was a Cylon standing in this room right now, they'd be bloody laughing at this." He hasn't quite gotten the memo that the 'time for negotiation' has passed. He's giving it one more college try.

"Oh for Frak's sake…" Samuel growls, shaking his head a little bit as he sees the brawl erupt. And when some of the words that has been said, he heads over in the direction of one of the ones going in Constin's direction, attempting to knock that one out. Yes, makes perfect sense in a tired mind operating on far too little sleep. Knock out the ones fighting, to break up the fight.

And so it goes. Fist begin flying and at about the same time, tables start tipping over. A pair of Marines throw fists at the same time and stumble backwards. The Marine that Samuel was going for spots the man inbound and throws a board, drunking punch towards his face. When Allie moves for Boelyn, though, the SSG immediately recognizes her. "Told you I'd see you again!" she snarls and throws an elbow hard into Alessandra's stomach before turning her momentum and throwing a smooth punch into Psyche's stomach next.

Constin hits the first marine to come within reach with a hard left rocking the man backward a step before Constin takes a punch back in turn. Grabbing the man by the service tank top, he bodily throws the man aside, trying to get through his fellow jarheads and get AT his fellow Sergeant.

The punch to the gut hurts and it only serves to make the ache from having to eject just a bit ago all the more painful, Allie's sore abdominals unable to take the blow from the bitch of a Marine. "Frak…" she starts to say even though still winded, that word huffed out just before another punch is thrown, the first one that missed being leveled at her chest, the second now aimed for Boelyn's jaw. "…you!"

It seems the name calling by Sawyer didn't go unnoticed, and one of the angered MPs goes after the blonde reporter. A fist goes flying towards her face, but she had the wherewithal to expect it. Instead of it landing, Sawyer raises a blocking arm and tries a hold that doesn't particularly work. The two end up grappling for advantage. Oh hellz nah.

There's an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in Psyche's eyes as Boelyn's fist swings in her direction — and is that the shadow of a dimple beside her mouth? Odd reaction, considering she doesn't even make a move to strike. But recall that swig of rum, just a moment ago? It's been burning on the little blonde's tongue, all this time — and just before Boelyn's punch lands, the pilot spits hard liquor right in the marine's eyes. Ghetto. But effective.

Doubled over and wheezing, then staggering to stand upright, Psyche looks like she'd be laughing if she could breathe. But lack of breath doesn't deter her from winding up and throwing a big haymaker at her booze-drenched opponent.

Getting hit in the face by that first swing, Samuel stumbles backwards a few steps, moving one hand to his face. "Okay, and here I was trying to help you…" he growls at the other Marine, before he throws himself forward towards said Marine, aiming a punch for the face in return.

"Oh, frak no," Devlin grouses as Boelyn punches Psyche in the stomach, though that rum-spitting draws a surprised bit of laughter. "Where the hades did you learn that?" he asides to the blonde before he swings a punch of his own at the MP.

No negotiation means McQueen is a bit slow on the uptake. And he sighs, balling a fist as he sees his fellow pilots getting into the line of fire. "Great. It's frakkin' brig time." Psyche's target is eyed by the older man as he looks from point A to point B, trying to grapple the man after Psyche's punch sets him up. He looks in Sawyer's direction and appears to try to throw/shove the man in the other brawling Marine's direction.

Boelyn is too occupied with Psyche to see Alessandra's fist. The Lieutenant can probably feel someone remarkably like a tooth breaking in the MP's mouth while she staggers, yelling. Booze in the eye? Plus human spit? She's just trying to rub it away when Allie lands her fist. The Staff Sergrant reels with it, spitting blood just in time to see Psyche's fist coming at her. She lifts an arm to block it and suddenly realizes that she's fighting three people. "BACKUP!" she calls out and two more Marines descend to attack while she staggers backwards to try and regain her vision. A loud cough and she spits a bloody tooth onto the floor. The Marine that stepped into her place doesn't seem interested in taking on Devlin and just trades a fist right into the nugget's temple. Meanwhile, a pair of Marines jump onto Constin's back, one of them punching him in the side. Hard. Sawyer's friend grapples hard, attempting to knee her in the femur at a pressure point on the outside while another one dives at McQueen.

Constin staggers under the weight on his back, snarling, and grasping backward for a hold on the little bastard. Tensing his neck, the sergeant throws his head backward hard and sudden in a reverse-headbutt that earns the satusfying crunch of impacting his tormentor's nose. Getting a handhold on the marine's flailing arm, Constin throws the man over his shoulder and into a table. A wordless bellow of anger roars out of the sergeant's throat.

Too many hours spent on the Pyramid court has taught Allie a few dirty trick, this a fact she is so very happy to demonstrate on the very woman who treated her like crap the other day. "Bitch…" she growls while yanking on Boelyn's shoulder, trying to drag her in close while a knee is brought up hard towards her left kidney. As pissed as she is, that'll be the only time she does that as Lucky's not wanting to cause too great of bodily harm, her presence of mind about her enough to at least know going too far will result in death or organ damage. That'd be bad. But hey, if the SSgt pisses a little blood…

People growing up in Fallingwater on Picon could have told quite a few stories about The Very Hot Temper of Young Samuel H. Blaine, and if those present now hadn't heard any of those stories, it's time for a little demonstration. Samuel swings quite forcefully for the face of his opponent, trying to break the nose of said opponent into a few pieces or something. Full force behind that punch, it would seem.

"Hey! Unsportsmanlike!" shouts Psyche, turning to point at the marines jumping on Constin's back. If she appreciates the irony of making such an accusation after spitting in her opponent's face, she gives no indication. She picks up a chair and looks ready to go help, only to drop it again (attention span of a gnat, even in bar fights). "You skank! You just hit my boyfriend!" Uncool! She throws another a punch at the marine who bopped Devlin.

Devlin gets punched in the head and takes a step or two back, shaking himself to clear his vision and then blinking again as Psyche picks up a chair. "Whoaaaa," he chides, reaching out a hand to try to stop the pilot even as she puts it back down of her own volition. Instead, he swings a half-hearted sort of punch at the marine who hit him, though his focus is lacking, caught on the rest of the battles occurring about the room.

McQueen's exapserated sigh "Frakking nitwit!" involves a rather violent lean/shove motion with both arms as he tries to grapple and knock the woman assailing Psyche (and now Devlin) towards Sawyer's assailant, demonstrating a thuggish economy of motion that would make the efficiency-minded proud. Or something.

As the MP continues to throw down with Sawyer, she waits for the right opportunity which presents itself when they try to knee her. When the MP is off-balance, the reporter locks up his wrist and uses it as a pivot to step around and twist that arm behind his back. Good thing he's a wiry fellow, otherwise the journalist might not have such luck on a bigger foe. "I don't know you. That's my purse." Sawyer sneers, using his locked and twisted arm to push him over the lip of the table. "Three classes in self-defense you little shit." She leans over him. "I'd call the frakking MPs, but wouldn't you know? They're already here. And losing." Unfortunately, McQueen's movement is a little too late.

The Marine that Constin threw just skids across the table in a flail of arms and the whole thing collapses against the wall, leaving the Marine in a bloody heap on the floor, spitting blood. Another Marine, Boelyn's partner - a large Corporal - charges at the Sergeant and tries to tackle him across the midsection. Meanwhile Boelyn takes the knee hard, but lifted her own leg a bit to try and block it. Alessandra's boot catches her knee and she reaches to grab it as she falls to the floor. Samuel's intended target, a young Private with a big mouth, does indeed get what he has coming to him. The Private staggers backwards before charging at Samuel. Devlin's target looks pretty happy about his success, the big man open and closing his hand towards the nugget as if to beckon him on. "C'mon, squirt. Always a pleasure to beat the shit out of piss-" Psyche's fist lands and cuts him off, the man leaning sideways with the impact before looking back up for another target: The Pink Pistol Pilot Psyche. Sawyer's poor target grunts as he is sent over the table.

Constin grunts through gritted teeth as the Corpral shoulder tackles him in the gut, driving Elf backward and slamming into the bulkhead with another grunt. The blood which had stained the back of his head from the earlier headbut is brushed onto the wall with the impact.

Boelyn's in a bad position, being on the ground like she is, that putting her in danger of getting stomped on, intentionally or by accident. It's something Alliet tries to capitalize on but the other woman has thrown her off balance and now she goes down to the ground hard upon one knee. Grimacing in pain, Allie wastes some precious time trying to shake the pain off, her assault paused for a moment while the joint starts to throb.

"Lesson one in self-defense. Don't start shite. At least, that's what my mama always told me." McQueen knits both hands together in the most cinematic of haymakers as he swings his arms towards the nearest marine assailant. Really. He's not taking a lot of time to choose targets here.

Of course the man under her grasp is fighting to get back up, but Sawyer's putting all her weight into keeping him down. It's a battle for purchase, but at least Sawyer has leverage on her side. The battle doesn't show any favor towards either side, but instead they are locked on par. "Did I mention I was top of my frakking class? Hold still and calm the frak down. Take a little nap, if you like. Let all this blow over, and when the dust settles, I won't press frakking charges." She grunts and tries to slam him back down, but it really is like wrestling an alligator. If anything, at least she's trying to keep one of them out of the fight to lend the odds in Team Constin's favor.

"Yeah, that's right, ya big mouth-breather," Psyche taunts the big Marine that's her new opponent in this wild square-dance of fisticuffs. "I'm half your size and wearing lip-gloss." She pops him right in the schnozz and pulls her fist right back, dukes up like a diminutive boxer. "So nyah."

Swinging his fist as Private Bigmouth comes charging, Samuel misses, and gets a hit to his mouth for the trouble, stumbling back a bit now. Hand moving to his lips for a few moments, wiping away some blood that was the unfortunate result of that hit. He then spits some blood on the floor, glaring at the Private for a few moments, before he charges for the Marine again.

Constin is still being driven into the bulkhead, when the corporal draws back several inches in order to drive his shoulder into Elf's gut again, but this time Elf gets two handfulls of short-cropped hair, and drives the Corporal's face into his knee, shoving the dazed and bloodied man away from him, drawing a few deep breaths, and wading right back in with the holler, "Where's Boelyn?!"

The Corporal shoves Constin hard into the bulkhea,d shaking a pair of hanging pictures off the wall whose frames shatter when they hit the steel floor. He rises from the waist and moves to punch Constin square in the chest. Sawyer's Marine-cum-Bitch keeps trying to wrangle free, growling at her. He even tries to kick at her legs. Meanwhile, Psyche's Big N Burly sets his sights on her. "Bout to be half the woman, too," he grunts, blood already trailing down onto his off-duty shirts, throwing a haymaker toward's Psyche's head.

Devlin steps in front of that haymaker, taking it hard in the chest, since, well. That's roughly the height of Psyche's head. It doubles the nugget over with a pained grunt, giving the blonde pilot another chance to get in a blow.

Somewhere from outside a whistle can be heard blowing. The sound of MANY boots thunking loudly on the deck plating are barely audible over the fights raging around the room. It would appear the MP's are coming..rather than just getting their asses kicked.

"She….oooph…right here, Con," Allie says while standing, aiming for a well placed kick to the SStg's gut. Hopefully balls are not the only things made out of brass that the Marines are issued upon entering boot camp, otherwise Boelyn's ovaries are going to be hurting something awful if she doesn't move or Allie does't somehow miss.

Constin sucks in a breath as the corporal slams him into the bulkhead. As the other marine draws back and comes in with that chest-punch (just got shot there, dude, not cool!) the sergeant rocks forward to get his balance back and slips to one side. Fist, meet bulkhead. Shining the fellow on with a punch, Elf scans the room for the source of Allie's call, and starts after the rival sergeant again.

The fight between Samuel and good old Bigmouth's turning into more of something looking like a wrestling match. They both try grabbing hold of each other, to keep the other from getting any punches in, but both of them seem to get in a number of them. They're not giving up, though.

"Hey!" Psyche yelps in protest as Devlin soaks the punch meant for her. She grimaces guiltily, then sighs and throws herself right back into harm's way, ducking around the nugget to get in close on Big-N-Burly… and knee the miserable so-and-so in the groin.

The little wrasslin' session with Sawyer and her cum-bitch continues, the man landing some kicks to her shins that will no doubt leave her bruised if not limping for the next week. Still, she keeps her weight on him and the lock on his wrist, though she's starting to tire quickly. "Really, shhhh. It's okay. I won't tell anyone you got your ass handed to you by a girl if you don't. Just calm down, take a breather. We can laugh about this tomorrow, and I'll even let you buy me a drink." All this, however, is said through clenched teeth as she retains her tenuous hold.

just as Allie stands up, another Marine comes to the rescue of Boelyn. And this one is not particularly kind about it. She grabs Alessandra by the hair, a big fistfull, and throws her to the side and over a table. Psyche finally does lose-out, though. While her boyfriend may have absorbed the first hit, his follow-up connects right to her cheek. Yeouch, that might turn black. He then turns and swings his other fist at Devlin. Sawyer's trinket continues his fight, growling, still trying to kick her. "I wouldn't let you buy me a whore, bitch!" — Then it happens. "COPS!!!" Someone from outside the room spots the incoming Brawl Busters and the room starts to empty out. People run for the frakkin hills from the spectatoring group. They're in the door momentarily, but they won't be able to move fast enough for everyone to get some final hits in.

Devlin needs a minute, after that rib-crunching hit, and so he is too slow to stop Psyche from getting right back in the way of the three-times-larger-than-her dude currently opposing them. "Seriously?" he mumbles, straightening up with a wince and throwing himself back into the fray. He gets in a couple good hits on the bigger MP, but takes more. At the shout of cops, he groans, and looks for an exit but, seeing none fast enough, he just punches the dude again instead.

The next swing that McQueen takes is unfortunately, less graceful than the last one (even if it was sort of a standoff), as he tries to follow up with an elbow into the man's gut and unfortunately gets knocked off-balance with a kick, he goes flying backwards and into a pile of coffee cups and other random rec room fixin's. They go flying. Along with someone's freshly-made coffee too. That shit burns.

Alessandra's flying and without a Viper (this is becoming a common theme for her!) only to impact with the deck with a harsh expell of air as it rushes from her lungs. "Frakkers," she slurs while reaching up, holing the back of her head which aches just like her knee and belly does, all that on top of the dull soreness she arrived with. Cops…huh? Looking around while squinting an eye, Allie simply lays still, trying so very hard to make with the 'play dead, good puppy' act.

Still in that wrestling-like fight, Samuel gets a few punches in, but sadly, so does the Private. All while both are trying to keep the other from being able to punch. None of them have heard the part about cops yet, and so they both try to get in a few more punches.

Finally that dude Sawyer has bent over the table like a little bitch connects his boot with her knee. It probably wouldn't be so bad, had Sawyer not recently been strung up in a tree like a pinata by that leg. She staggers backwards, hand immediately going for that knee to brace it, leaving her doubled over and prime for the sucker punch the marine whirls around and delivers. With a bloodies and soon to be fat lip, Sawyer goes down hard on her ass and just sort of sits there, dazed. Anyone get the license plate on that bus?

Psyche yelps and staggers back as her face and sinuses light up with pain. Her hand covers the eye and cheek that are already swollen with what'll be an epic shiner in a few hours. Cops? The cops are here, as Sawyer so saliently observed earlier. So frak 'em. The little blonde does her best to get in a last, spiteful lick, lifting her knee viciously in the direction of Big-N-Burly's gonads. Like he won't see that coming.

Ever get that feeling that something really bad is about to happen to you? Staff Sergeant boelyn might be getting just such a sinking feeling as Constin stalks up to the woman from behind- Thick, calloused fingers take a rough handful of the woman's short blonde hair, and- with all the muscles of arm, shoulders and back, constin throws the woman backward onto the deck- heard enough to strike her noggin on the plating. The first view the MPs will have of contin is the big man snarling down at Boelyn, "You'll never be HALF the woman she was," and chasing the words with a heavy boot to the ribs.

Devlin distracts the big marine with a continuing series of punches, jaw tight, teeth gritted as he doesn't bother trying to deflect the swings aimed back at him in return. He manages a couple of nice shots, and toughs out the bruising hits he takes, refusing to let up. Dude DID mess up his girlfriend's face, after all.

It'll probably end in something like a draw, the Corporal vs. Private brawl involving Samuel. None of them manage to get in any real punches now, and it's mostly just attempting to keep the other one from doing so. "Time for you to give up?" Samuel offers to the Private, in between some very deep breaths.

Alessandra's eyes dart open and towards where Constin is now, the fallen Marine he just tried to make paste out of forgotten. "Elf…no!" Forgetting her own pending arrest which is fairly inevitable by now, Allie gets up and moves as fast as she can to her friend's side. "Stop…it's over." Reaching for his arm, she will try to get his braced with both of her own, going as far as to try and wrap each limb around his own's upper length just above the elbow. "Con…stop," she repeated, it followed by, "The MPs are here. Time to let the fight go."

After brushing the dripping hot coffee off McQueen's shoulder, the suddenly-upended pilot throws the empty cup onto the ground furiously, seeming to take out what passes for rage on the man's part on the hapless inanimate object, stomping it down with his boot. "The fr—" he doesn't finish. The cops, they are here.

Dude must've been distracted by someone shouting the popo have arrived, because against all probability, Psyche's repeat gambit pays off big. She jams her knee into Big-N-Burly's groin so hard the motherfrakker's grandchildren will be tasting them. Assuming he's still capable of reproduction, after that ballsack rupturing blow. She frowns puppyishly as the man squeaks and falls, looking absolutely affronted that he actually hit her. "NOT the face," she scolds.

Psyche's intended target actually had no idea that was coming. It had been a nice clean fight (for the most part). So when that knee connects, the man nearly lifts off the ground. His feet rise him onto his toes and the air leaves him like the exhaust from a car. He deflates from his lungs before he falls to his knees, holding his groin, and then deflates from the stomach - puke goes ALL over Psyche's and Devlin's boots and pants. A little blood, too. Sawyer's man looks like he's about to continue, stepping towards her once again as he rubs at his shoulder with a menacing look. Samuel's guy looks up to see the cops enter and just goes sheet white. Oh shit. He lifts his arms behind his head man. "Yeah! Just don't taze me, bro!" But when Constin finds Boelyn, its ugly. She was still trying to recover from her bout with Alessandra when that hand found her hair. She just collapses backwards onto the deck with a snarled scream, trying to grasp at the wrist of her assailant but failing horribly. The Staff Sergeant looks up at Constin like she might kill him for the words, but that kick to the ribs gets a genuine cry of pain from her. Goddamn, that had to hurt. —- When the MP's arrive, they begin tackling and shoving. Things like "We're detaining every last one of you until we get this straightened out!!!" can be heard being barked. There probably aren't even enough handcuffs. Its BrigTime.

When Alessandra tries to calm Constin down the first look she gets is a twisted snarl that looks as much like he's choosing where to hit her with the first punch. Angry breaths cause shoulders to heave, but she holds his eye long enough for the MPs to get hold of the big man. the fight, at least, is over.

Devlin's distraction-by-punching technique works, and he starts to laugh as Psyche lays the guy flat, though there is a sympathetic wince at the low blow. But then he is suddenly covered in puke to the knees and just groans, "Awww man. Couldn't you have done that just a little bit less hard?" he asks Bubbles beside him. And then they're getting arrested! "You owe me for this later," he grumbles to the pilot, sighing and holding still for the MPs.

"Just…frakking hold it." McQueen pants, looking winded and more than a little freaked out. As the cavalry arrives - one man isn't offering any resistance to the arrest proceedings. Him. He merely holds up his hands in deference to their immediate authority.

Psyche bats big, innocent baby blues at Devlin. "But baby. He was hitting you!" See, she was defending his honor and stuff. Or something. She just grins as she's informed of her debt, gamely putting her arms behind her for cuffing or whatever the five-oh has in mind. "Yes, dear." She flashes a big grin at McQueen and Alessandra — one which would be more winsome if her eye weren't already swelling shut. "I love you guys!"

First the broken nose and then getting caught trying to put Coll's belongings somewhere safe (not even thinking that it all would be considered evidence) and now this, all of which is compounded when it looks like Constin's going to lash out at her. Taking a shuddering breath in, Alessandra braces herself even as tears start to stand out in her eyes, those shaken free and allowed to course down her cheek when one of the MPs grabs her harshly. She doesn't say anything, the pilot simply watching her friend while they prepare to transfer her to the brig.

One MP (newly arrived, of course) actually helps Sawyer to her feet before the Reporter, too, is detained. Oh the humanity. At least he lets her straighten out her clothing and tuck back her hair first. Have to look good for the mugshot, right? Right?

"That trick works a lot better without a black eye," Devlin retorts to Psyche's lash-batting, a lovely pair of bruises beginning to appear on his cheek and temple. Always good to coordinate with but not match your partner, yes? Fashion 101. He just chuckles and shakes his head as he awaits a trip to the brig, sighing, "Somebody's totally going to steal those bottles of booze while we're gone, too. You owe me so much."

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