| The Message |
| Summary: | Captain Sitka follows up with Leyla after she sends out word of her need for Sagitarron speakers. |
| Date: | 2 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Eleven No Longer, Black Doesn't Wash Out, and Plans, Cans and Automobiles. |
| Players: |
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| Tihar Penitentiary - Exercise Yard |
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| The prison courtyard is paved with cracked concrete, the few stubborn weeds that managed to poke through the gaps long since killed by radiation. There is a large garage for the facility's vehicles near the main entrance. The newer, steel-and-concrete prison block looms nearby; beyond it, the bleak black walls of the original prison, narrow window-slits carved into the basalt. The area between the two prison blocks has been converted into an exercise-slash-recreation yard for the inmates, and is cordoned off by chainlink and razor-wire. A few concrete chessboards jut out along one wall, while basketball hoops and a Pyramid court in shambles are against another. On the opposite side of the courtyard stand three gallows, their massive palmwood timbers blackened with age. They face the exercise area, and would have provided the inmates a clear view of their most typical escape from the prison. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #188 |
Always working, that's Leyla's motto. At the moment, she's escaping the dust and dirt, somewhat, of the yard by hunkering down inside the open hatch of her raptor, feet hanging down off the edge, dangling free as she kicks idly. A strip of metal sanding fiber is in hand as she smoothes the outsides of one of the cans she salvaged, now fully washed and no longer smelly, thank you very much. Despite the fact that it's nothing more than a piece of tin that used to hold some sort of comestible, she seems to take particular care in the work. It might be salvage, but it's going to be perfectly machined, so to say, salvage when she gets done with it.
Voices out by the old prison block. The sound of some heavy iron door slamming and bolting into place. The thunk-scrape-thunk of booted feet moving across the yard— and somewhere in the midst of their passage, the softer flick, flick of flint being struck as a cigarette's lit. A bulky, flight-suited figure wearing Captain's pins passes by Leyla's raptor, and then reappears as he takes a few steps backward. Blue eyes trained on the young woman perched upon the open hatch. "You wouldn't happen to be.." He trails off, expression narrowing faintly in careful scrutiny.
Leyla looks up, and then down again, as she works, keeping an eye on the goings ons in the yard. She's not just here for the sightseeing and garbage. Her own flight suit isn't far, close enough to be pulled on in a jiffy, if she needs to power up the ship for come what may. The Captain walking past is noted, and Leyla's just opening her mouth to speak to him, from the size, when he disappears. And she's just closing her mouth again, when he walks back. She does hop down, setting aside the sanding strip and the can to salute, "Sir, Lieutenant JG Aydin, sir."
The salute's somewhat haltingly returned, though the gesture might well be mistaken for a flick of his fingers more than anything remotely military. The Captain's flight suit is zipped down to nearly his waist, displaying rather prominently the non-regulation tshirt he's sporting beneath it. "Uh, you don't have to worry about that." He flickers a smile at the younger woman, skewed slightly to one side of his mouth. "I'm on my smoke break. Leyla, right?" He takes a lean against the raptor's ramp, still studying the other pilot. "You wanted to see me about, uh.. a message, or something?"
Well, if he's going to be that way about it, she'll just plop herself back down on the hatch. No need to stand on ceremony, it seems. "As you say, sir." But at least she returns the smile, faint as it is, with one of similar wattage. "Yes, Leyla. Or Sweet Pea." he might have heard that at least, in the comm chatter from the Elevens, or during her transport trips down to the surface. Once she's settled herself again, the question comes, "Yes, I'm glad that you got my message. We've been working on a message delivery system, to try to make survivors aware of the fact that we're out here and we're looking for them. I had the idea to drop leaflets, for maximum dispersal, outlining dates and times and locations when a raptor would come and pick up anyone who wanted to come to the Cerberus. The only problem…is I don't speak a lick of Sagitarron. Or write it, which is more to the point. So…I've been hunting for someone to do the translations for me."
"Ibrahim's fine," corrects the viper jock, faint smile shifting to a somewhat glib amusement at the 'sir' he gets. "Or Shiv, if you rather." A flick of his thumb to ash out his smoke, before it's used to vigorously scratch at a tip-of-his-nose itch. "Sounds like a smart plan. I'm guessing you've talked to the CAG about it?" And then, "I'd be happy to help with the, uh, the translations. You're aware, I hope, that there's a half dozen different dialects of the language around here, though. I can speak a few of them, but I'm pretty rusty in Fasih or any of the traditional tongues. Apostolos or someone might be able to help you out there."
A nod, and then, "Shiv, then." It's a name, but not a given name, which seems less personal, perhaps, to the Taurian woman. "Yes, I approached the CAG first, when I mentioned the idea that the survivors might want to be able to come to us, instead of us coming to them. She was concerned about the danger that would be posed to the raptor crews if potential insurgents knew where we'd be, and she and the Lieutenant," who is more likely than not her SL Trask, "have been working to review my plans for the rendezvous and the possibility of in-atmo jumps." A hand picks back up the can and the sanding strip, Leyla going back to work, not even bothering to look at the metal as she begins to work again, ungloved hands, a rare sight indeed, moving smoothly with the experience only longs years of practice can create, "Yes, I have been trying to contact Ensign Apostolos as well. Captain Nikephoros recommended the two of you to me as two who would be the most accessible. But the Major has also mentioned a few others, but they're not in the wing."
That, too, is possibly filed away by the Captain. Or possibly not. It's hard to say whether he's bored or just easygoing about such things, really. He smokes, listens, and watches Leyla's hands idly while she works; his eyes flick up occasionally, such as when Trask is mentioned, but do not make contact with her own. A Sagittarian peculiarity, almost certainly. "Well, if you want to drop off the message whenever you're ready, I can have it done for you probably.. probably in a few minutes to an hour. Depending on how wordy you are." Another quick slant of a grin, smoke exhaled away from the woman. "And if you want, I'll let Tisiphone know you're looking for her."
"Well, I don't expect I need to be that verbose. The simpler the message, the better. That way, no matter the age of the person, they should be able to read it. Also, the simpler, the easier to communicate with people of differing literacy levels." If Leyla seems put out by the fact that the Captain never meets eyes, she doesn't show it. Likely as not, she doesn't. People have their ways. "I would appreciate that, Captain. Whatever dialects you can manage would be very helpful, and I can ask the Ensign, thank you for that," to his offer to let her know Leyla's looking for her, "to add any you didn't cover. And anyone else I can rustle up. Thank you."
"Most people down here don't read," Sitka points out, not unkindly, on the heels of Leyla's comment about 'differing literacy levels'. "But some do, in the city." Aera Yazd, presumably. His lips twitch a little, and he pushes out of his lean against the raptor. "Guess it's worth a shot, anyway, right?" And, gentler, "No problem. Just come find me when you've got what you want on paper, all right?"
"Then I'm not sure how effective this will be. But this is what I have the ability to do, and I intend to do everything I can for the people who were left behind here." She doesn't get back up, when the Captain straights, but she does sit up, as close to at attention as one can, when their feet are dangling like a child's off the ground, and there's metal dust and shavings everywhere, "Thank you, Shiv. I will, as soon as I have them ready. I appreciate your help."
"It's not a problem," Sitka repeats, smile warming to something a little less hesitant, and obviously sincere. "I want to find these people as much as you do. And I, uh. I appreciate it." It's murmured with a hint of something approaching shyness. "Anyway, I'll see you around. If you don't catch me on the ground, I'm probably up on a patrol. Just leave it with one of the other Knights." He lifts a hand in farewell, and strides away— hopefully before she has the opportunity to shoot back to her feet again and throw up a salute.