PHD #366: Year and a Day
Year and a Day
Summary: Rec Room in Condition 2. Marines get guests.
Date: 27 Feb 2042 AE
Related Logs: None
Constin Cora Mathers Richards Sofia 
Recreation room - Deck 9
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: #366

"A year and a day," Constin drawls as the big marine deals cards to the various other jarheads who share a Triad table with him. "You all catch any of that talking the Air Wing was up to yesterday?" he wodners, idly. In what has become an impromptu marine gathering, the Condition 2 prohibition on alcohol has been respected in letter, while the spirit of indulgence has been fulfilled by a table set with junk food.

Being at Condition Two for nearly two weeks is enough to make anyone edgy. Shore leave suspended, drinking privileges revoked, it's to the point one might even be scared to take an overlong shower for fear it'll be interrupted by those annoying Klaxons. Enjoying what down time he has, Mathers makes his way into the Rec Room, spying the Triad game in short order. The Captain's hand snakes out, appropriating a potato chip for inspection. Crunch. "Boys." He greets evenly.

"Captain," Constin voices in easy greeting as he turns a narrow blue eye up to regard the arriving officer. "Was just telling the boys that back home there's this old.. tradition, I guess you'd call it. Back when the mines was all full of convicts, there was this notion that if they escaped, and made a run for it.. and if they could avoid getting caught again for a year and a day, they was legally free." A smirk twists the Master-at-Arms' lip with the words. "Care to have a seat?"

Cora arrives from the Deck 9.

You never can eat just one, or at least that's the slogan that's toted on the side of the bag of chips Mathers is digging his hand in again. The power of Command is abused when it comes to junk food. "Somehow I don't think the Cylons'll operate under the same notion." Crunchcrunchcrunch goes the tasty snack as Mathers sinks into a seat offered by Constin. In lieu of alcohol, a knot of marines have opted for imbibing on junk food and gambling. "Don't mind if I do."

Constin sniffs drily. "Yeah, somehow I doubt the Colonial police did, either. Holdover from the days when folk would kill each other with swords, I figure," the big redneck drawls with a tight grin, popping a small and slightly stale cookie into his mouth, and chewing around the next words as cards are gathered in and dealt out, with the Company's Captain gaining a hand this time around. "Hell, we keep this chase up long enough, might get back to swords and such. Munitions can't last forever, yeah?"

Constin deals a new hand.

"Munitions. Lightbulbs. Toilet paper. Just think of the carnage when the tampons run out. The real bitch of a war is that factories cease to produce when there is no one left to run them." Mathers sucks the salt off his fingers, wipes them on his pants, and then finally picks up his hexagonal cards. While he arranges them with a concentrating furrow of his brow, he further comments, "Too bad swords would be for shit against those Toasters."

"Our supplies were sufficient for a tour of some years," Cora remarks as she meanders past the Triad table, cigarette held away from her lips as she eyes the snack food and the pot and then the players, though not their cards, if one were to watch her eyes carefully. "With the addition of civilian survivors that time is somewhat less, but we shouldn't be facing dire shortages anytime soon. "What's the buy-in?" she inquires, eyeing the chair currently occupied by one scrawny-looking young marine with his hand in a bag of gummy bears.

"Heh," Constin grunts in deadpan humor at Mathers' last comment. "Shit, sir. Big enough sword can kill just about anything." Brushing the crumbs off his fingertips after another cookie, the Gunnery Sergeant thumbs through his own cards. Glancing up from his hexagonal hand as Cora approaches and speaks, "Cigarettes, drink vouches, potato chips. In lieu of any of that, occupation of a chair and decent conversation, sir," he returns evenly. A peace offering, in honor of the year-and-a-day.

Mathers is eating the current pot, so it doesn't seem to be so strict in the sense, no. With a little smirk on his features, he scoots his chair back and swings out a leg, as if in silent offering for the TACCO to have a seat. If she doesn't stab him first. "Can I have a chainsaw instead?" Zane continues on with this hypothetical, still futzing with his cards to decide if it's worth enough to even place a bet on when it comes around to him.

Cora glances at the leg Mathers offers and then at the PFC who spot she clearly intends to take. She looks pointedly from him to the XO's lap, and he stands quickly, and then steals a last handful of candy before fleeing. "Guess you're not his type, Captain," she tells Mathers with a smirk. A pack of cigarettes is dug out of a pocket and set on the table, and she picks up the cards the young man left behind. "Wonder if we've salvaged any chainsaws yet," she says, setting her cards back down, "There were probably a few lying about on Tauron. Who's turn?"

"You can have a chainsaw, if I get one of them big frak-off swords they give Ares in some of them statues, sir," Constin returns with a cracked grin to Mathers' quip. Setting his own hand face down on the table, he picks up the leftover deck to send six more cards off the top of the deck to Cora. It's a violation of strict Triad protocol, but the relaxed nature of this game seems to permit it. "Yours," he answers Cora. "Cigs worth a hundred each."

Cora raises the bet to 100.

There's a quiet huff of air that may have just been a gruff chuckle from Mathers as the PFC goes skittering off. "You have a way with men, Nikephoros." The marine Captain shifts, tugging out some drink vouchers so he can enter the betting. Tossing out the equivalent of a hundred to match the current bet. "Deal. Put in the request to the S4, and I'll sign off on it Constin." Chainsaws for everyone!

Mathers calls.
Constin calls.

"It comes naturally," Cora retorts to Mathers, reaching for a chip as she tosses a cigarette in for her wager. She smiles a bit at the discussion between the two men, replying, "Did we pick one of those up from all those temples and museums we checked out on Tauron, sergeant? I wouldn't be surprised. Actually, speaking of things in stores," she begins, stubbing out the butt of the cigarette she's been smoking, "A civilian put in a request to recover an old-fashioned straight razor that was confiscated when he arrived. Some sort of family heirloom, it seems. Any chance he might be able to get it back?"

Constin sniffs dryly at Mathers' sword/chainsaw requisition agreement. "One card for me," he mutters, discarding one and drawing another. Shaking his head to Cora's initial inquiry, "Nah, there was this lightning-bolt knife thing we grabbed, but that got handed over in the hostage exchange," the answer leaves a sour taste in constin's mouth that is visible upon his battered face. He seeks to clear the palatte with both a cookie and a change in topics. "No chainsaws or swords, more's the pity." Eyes flicking back up to Cora at that last question, he muses, "People still use those? Huh. Would take an exception order from Command to release it. Not inclined to release blades to civvies without a damn good reason." He eyes Mathers for confirmation or refuting.

"It hasn't crossed my desk." Zane says simply of this man's confiscated possession, as if that is reason enough that it hasn't already been dispensed with. It seems the Captain is going to draw one card too, as he flings one into the discards with a little flick of his fingers. "Even if we dulled the blade, that wouldn't prevent him from sharpening it again. With the growing unrest, I'd be wary to grant it. Is there a reason you've taken personal interest in this man and his family heirloom?" One of Zane's tawny eyebrows juts up with the question, looking across to Cora with a subtle tension in his jaw.

Cora stands pat and discards nothing.
Mathers discards 1 cards.
Constin discards 1 cards.

Cora raises the bet to 100.
Mathers folds.
Constin raises the bet to 200.
Cora raises the bet to 300.
It is now Constin calls.

Cora's Triad:

G1 ^ R2 ^^ G2 ^^ R3 ^ R3 ^ B3 ^^^

Constin's Triad:

R1 ^ R2 ^^ G2 ^^ G3 ^ B3 ^ B3 ^^^

Constin WINS!!

Cora nods at Constin's and Mathers's replies, agreeing, "I informed him it would be a security hazard and unlikely to be granted," she replies, "But it seemed worth checking. The man in question is Frederick Adrastos. I believe I requested your files on him as well though they've yet to come in. It's possible my aide forgot to file the paperwork, he's been useless lately." She tosses in more cigarettes for her bet, and then shows her cards when the round ends, lips pursing slightly as Constin wins. Another chip is stolen and she goes on, "He's made a proposal for the implementation of a civilian-only sanitation crew on the Elpis. Something of a token step towards giving them some autonomy. He seems interested in stepping into something of a leadership position in the civilian community, and in working closely with the military as he goes about it." She lights up one of her un-wagered cigarettes and goes on, "So I would like to know more about him, and keep him as an ally, if that is what he should prove to be."

Constin eyes Cora across the table as the bets are made, and raised, and escalate. "Hope you ain't waiting for me to blink, sir," he drawls as he calls the final raise, and rakes in the pot of.. diminished chips, and cigarettes. Eh, its the principle of the thing, really. As the TACCO explains the situation, Constin shrugs once, "Ain't seen a request. Simple enough to fill out, though. Even if all's we got is probably a processing report, same as everybody else."

Mathers deals a new hand.

Mathers is all too happy that he folded on that round, even if it's a casual game, he would have lost his ass. Cora's explanation about Frederick does nothing to lighten his suddenly sour mood, and so he concentrates on his cards moreso than the conversation. "Sanitation, as in scrubbing toilets and taking out the trash? If the man wants to clean up shit, more power to him. But he can sit in the queue with everyone else." The man's nostrils flare in irritation, and he calls the current bet.

Constin raises the bet to 100.
Cora calls.
Mathers calls.

Constin discards 4 cards.
Cora discards 1 cards.
Mathers discards 1 cards.

Constin raises the bet to 100.

"I'm not anymore," Cora replies to Constin, smiling faintly for a second, conceding a failure of strategy. She steals a gummy bear from the bag abandoned by the PFC whose chair she stole and nods to the MaA. "I assume it's just a processing report, but it seemed worth checking whether anything else had been heard of him. I don't believe he's been aboard long, though, in any case." To Mathers, she lifts a brow, and then explains, "No, he doesn't want to do it himself. He's organized a plan for civilians to take over from Support and deal with those things themselves, and has enough volunteers interested for it to be feasible in that regard. It would put something very basic and simple back in the hands of civilians, and earn the military points for having done so. It seems low-risk to me, frankly. I intend to take it to Command when there's time."

Cora folds.
Mathers raises the bet to 125.
Constin calls.

Constin grunts wordlessly as Cora elaborates the situation and proposed organization. "Huh." Adjusting the cards in his hand, he glances back up, weighing something silently for a moment as he eyes Cora. As an afterthought, he matches Mathers' bet and lays his cards out, facedown. "Yeah. If this fella's got any ties to that 'Marie' piece of trash, that's something to know before giving him the time of frakking day."

Constin's Triad:

G2 ^^ G2 ^^ R3 ^ R3 ^ B3 ^^^

Mathers's Triad:

B1 ^ R2 ^^ G2 ^^ R3 ^ R3 ^ B3 ^^^

Mathers WINS!!

Cora deals a new hand.

Mathers lays out his large mixed triad with little enthusiasm, waiting for Constin to show his hand so they can compare. "You do that." Is his only reply to Cora and her plans for Frederick, no indication as to whether or not he supports the plan. A little silver cylinder is pulled out by the Marine Captain, and he cracks the lid to shake out a cinnamon scented toothpick, his own oral fixation needing to be sated after the TACCO lights up another cigarette. "We're just all waiting for Marie to frak up so we can haul him in. Day we do, the drinks'll be on me."

"Exactly," Cora nods to Constin, "He claims he'd like to end that scumbag's monopoly on influence and take him down, but… who knows if that's the case." She takes her new cards, peeking at them carefully before setting them down again and tossing a single cigarette into the center of the table when it's her turn. To Mathers, she turns a sidelong look and one arched brow. "If you foresee a problem with such a plan, Captain, I'd be interested to hear it. Is there a security consideration you think I'm missing, here?"

"Uh huh," Constin drawls to Cora with all the skepticism one expects of the Military Police. Passing the deck of cards to Cora, as the duties for shuffling and dealing have rotated to the TACCO. He doesn't interject to Cora's comments toward Mathers, nor immediately into the marine officer's answer to the Tactical officer.

Mathers raises the bet to 25.
Constin raises the bet to 100.
Cora calls.
Mathers calls.

As cards are dealt his way, Mathers makes a rather modest bet considering the standard that's been set for the opening round. "Mister Adrastos will have his paperwork processed just like everyone else. If he wishes to form a civilian organization to create autonomy from the military, it sounds like a good use of their time and a way to breed self-worth. The lack of which is no doubt the reason Marie is able to gather sheep into his flock. They need something to believe in, and I'd rather it be good honest work than some charlatan with a fancy Virgan accent. The weapon, however, will have to be weighed more heavily." When the bet comes back around to him, he merely matches it. "Or as my MaA has so aptly said: uh-huh." All this is said rather dryly, without so much as meeting Cora's eyes while he does so.

Mathers discards 1 cards.
Constin stands pat and discards nothing.
Cora discards 1 cards.

Mathers raises the bet to 25.
Constin raises the bet to 125.
Cora raises the bet to 200.
Mathers folds.
Constin raises the bet to 300.
Cora calls.

"As I believe I said already," Cora replies to Mathers a shade dryly, "I had no expectation that the weapon would be returned, nor, to be honest, do I much care. I told him I'd ask, you are both conveniently here, so I've asked." And that seems to be the end of it for the TACCO, who turns back to her cards and the betting. She inquires of Constin as she lays down her Triad, "What is the state of the case against Rene-Marie, at the moment? Any reasonable pretext for arresting him in sight?"

Constin offers a sage nod to accompany his deadpan expression as Mathers repeats his wordless comment of moments prior. As the Marine XO makes another pittance bet, and then folds, the big sergeant mutters idly, "You know something, I find it very comforting that you ain't a bluffer, sir." The sergeant then proceeds to get into another bidding war with Cora, cracking a tight grin, as he arranges his own cards. "No charges have been filed, sir," he returns to the inquiry. "And- with respect? Don't feel proper speculating on what investigations might turn up. Large Triad, red high."

Constin's Triad:

R1 ^ G2 ^^ G2 ^^ R3 ^ B3 ^ B3 ^^^

Cora's Triad:

R1 ^ R2 ^^ R2 ^^ R3 ^ R3 ^ B3 ^^^

Cora WINS!!

"Or I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security before I pounce, Gunny." Mathers flashes a smile around the pinch of the toothpick between his teeth, an expression that doesn't quite meet his eyes. He leans over the cards as they're spread out, examining each of their hands before Cora is declared the winner for all the red she's showing. "But in the case of this hand, it was a damn fine fold on my part, if I do say so myself." Again, the man scoots back his chair, but it's not to offer up his lap this time around. With another pilfered handful of chips, he's craddling his stolen prize to his chest, and tucks away what is remaining of his drink chits. "Another trick is to know when to quit when the cards just aren't falling your way. You'll all excuse me?"

Richards arrives from the Deck 9.

"All red but one," Cora says as she lays down her own cards and nods at Constin, "And fair enough, sergeant, I understand. Hopefully something will come together in the near future. I don't much enjoy feeling like we're being taunted." She gathers up her winnings, and then turns as an ensign appears in the doorway, "Looks as though I'm needed. If I can make it back before you're finished I'll see about winning the rest of those chips. Thanks for the game, sergeant. Good luck." She tucks her pack into her pocket and rises, heading towards the door to speak with her aide.

"Sir," Constin nods once to Mathers as the marine XO announces his intention to depart. A wry grin twists his lip as Cora's wash of red cards beats his own Large triad on points. "Command draws blood," he drawls in reference to the ruddy nature of Cora's hand as round two of head to head betting goes to the TACCO. "Sir," he repeats as Cora also rises.

Mathers leaves, heading towards the Deck 9.

Richards slides in from the corridor, dressed in his blacks but sans gear, the MP just having gotten off duty. On the hunt for something to take the edge off of the stress that doesn't involve booze, he eventually meanders to where the stack of junk food is, his brow creasing as he looks over what has been put out for a selection before some chips is snagged. Only after that's done does he look around the room again, this time in an attempt to see who is here and what might be going on.

"Folks're going for the chips," Constin grunts upon catching Richards' eye and observing his snacking preference. "Ain't touching the cookies so much. Grab a handful of them for me, will you Sergeant?" he requests indicating the cookies. The Gunnery Sergeant sits at an otherwise vacant triad table, littered with cubits, and the odd cigarette or alcohol voucher.

"Yeah, sure Sarge." The requested cookies are snatched, five in total, and they are brought over to where Constin is. "Here you go," he mutters while holding them out, the MaA allowed to take them before he sits down. "Looks like you all were having a party. Hope I'm not interrupting something private." Not that the thought of his possibly having done so is keeping him from eating.

Constin grunts his thanks as thick fingered hands gather up the offered confections. Popping one into his mouth right away, he shakes his head to the latter query. "Nah," he begins around chewing. "Just another way to mark time as it floats on by, yeah?"

Richards snorts in what might be laughter. "Yeah. Well, at least we have a way to kill it. Time, I mean. Good thing, too. Don't know about you but I'd go crazy." A chip is crunched on while he looks at the other man, his expression drifting towards slightly dark. "What did you think of that memorial, huh? Wound up being a clusterfrak…"

Sofia arrives from the Deck 9.

"Short trip," Constin comments dryly to Richards' talk of going insane. The latter question in answered with a shrug. "Their way, I guess. Sure as shit stinks, it ain't mine, though." the two men sit at a triad table, munching snacks. With condition Two forbidding alcohol, indulgence takes the form of a table full of junk food nearby.

"There's more to it than it being something that's done differently," Dick points out while shaking his head. "Thought memorials were supposed to bring people together, not divide them." Setting the chips down on the table, Chris brushes the salty grease off of his hands by rubbing them on his pants, the black material of which keeps the mess from showing upon them. "It was like a wedge was physically driven between them." He is referring to more than the outcry over the mention of the pilot who was apparently a skinjob but he doesn't explain that.

Sofia wanders in. She hums, twirling a wrench. She seems to be in an okay, if … slightly fearful mood. She glances over her shoulder before meandering along. Light check! Squint. And then - then - well, no Marines playing Beer Pong to add projectiles and flying Marines, but there's a Constin and a Richards. She smiles and heads over. Still … glancing over her shoulder. "Hey!" Beam.

"They can't wrap their brains around it, Richards," Constin begins. "Hell, they can't even think about combat like we can. I look at it like this:" he begins leaning back in the chair. "Pilots do their fighting and dying locked up tight in these little machines. They don't see their squadmates when they die, it's this whole.. big detached thing that they can't wrap their heads around. It's this forced distance. Shit, I heard they went to all sorts of pieces on the hangar deck when a couple Air wingers bodies came in. Marines? We ain't got that kinda luxury. When your squadmate gets his head blown off, his brains splatter on your face. You and me and them like us? We don't need a big assed to-do like that ceremony. Because we see death up close. We know what it looks like, and when that toothy bastard the boatman comes around for us, we're set to smile right back at him." His eye turns aside as Sofia wanders in. "Lo there, Wolfe."

The arrival of the meek Sofia has Chris smiling, her obvious discomfort somehow understood on a sympathetic level. "Hey, kiddo. How are you?" Turning half an eye back onto the other Marine, he shrugs and shakes his head. "I guess it does make for some sense of removal," he says eventually, returning to their conversation. "But still. It makes me sick to think that people only seem to care to know about those they…" Sniffing, he looks down. Something has suddenly snatched the MPs tongue from him, rendering him unable to finish that thought.

Sofia is quiet at the talk of the memorial. She looks thoughtful, almost sad. She smiles sadly. Engineers get stepped on a lot. She is quiet for a moment, saying nothing. "Hi there. Wait, I can't call you sarge now." This baffles her. Her eyes cross a moment. Hrrm. Uh oh. She's thinking of another title for Cons. "Well, Elf or Gunny is kinda badass too." Beam. She smiles politely. "I'm alright. A little worried," She admits, smiling faintly at Richards. "And I imagine it has to do with people being in an insular community. I'm kind of an odd case but…" She shrugs. "Engineers tend to explode or get stepped on." Not much TO bury in those case. Sadness. "Oh well. Have the lights been okay in here? How are you guys?"

"Hell, it's got nothing to do with the ones that are dead. It's for them still alive to feel better." Constin opines simply. "Shit, I knew a few of them real good and let me tell you- if Sophronia, or Apostolos, or Weber were looking in on that to-do? They'd be rolling their eyes and hollering, 'I'd be bored to death by alla this, if I weren't already dead!'," the marine states irreverently, before turning his eye to Sofia. "Most folk are running with 'Gunny'. Take a chair and some food, if you like," he invites easily.

"So you bury the dead so you can feel better," Chris says with a tone of disdain. "Kind of pathetic but I won't fault them for wanting closure." Pursing his lips, he looks at the engineer again, his expression baffled. "Why are you worried? Something wrong?" He's fairly removed from the majority of the ship's people, mostly his fault that, so if anything's amiss he's totally clueless.

Sofia nods at Constin. She smiles sadly. She seemed to know the first two at least. She looks to Constin. "Well, Constin, Destroyer of Hippos and Bears and Cylons is kind of long," She admits and grins. "I might grab a bite. I was just getting ready to get some stuff fixed," She shrugs. Then she takes a deep breath. A look over towards Richards. "Um. Well, there was some drama at the Memorial Wall. Someone put up a picture of Eleven. Kepner tore it town and Rejn was there and …" She trails off.

"I buried my wife," Constin answers Richards, with a brief edge in his voice and eye as it fixes on the Sergeant, before he shrugs and adds, "But that was 'cause she asked me to. It mattered to her, and I damn sure ain;t gonna suffer that getting called pathetic." Popping another slightly stale cookie into his mouth, the big man concludes, "However folk want to handle their own is theirs to decide. Don't gotta agree with it." A dry eye and wry grin are turned to Sofia. "I ain't never done a thing against a bear, you know." Her description of the incident at the Memorial Wall provokes a terse exhale. "Yeah, heard about that."

"I'm sorry, Sarge. I didn't mean to be offensive. I… death really isn't an easy subject for me to talk about and I mispoke." There's no quick back peddling but he does explain what he meant. "I meant when it divides instead of unites." Shaking his head, he reaches out to pat Elf on his arm, an apoligetic gesture. Darting a look at Sofia, then, he raises a brow. "People are angry all around. The subject of the Cylon? Not something many people want to deal with…" That's all he says on that, perhaps one of the angry ones he just commented upon.

Sofia looks sad at that. "She was really awesome. They finally told us about what her work involves," Sofia rubs at her eyes a moment. She blinks fast and grins at Constin. "I thought you totally punch bears before breakfast." She explains simply. "Okay, still, hippos at least. But they eat CROCODILES and punch them for entertainment." She seems to think Gunny is the greatest frakking thing ever. Poor Constin. "Everyone handles grief differently," She remarks quietly. "I'm a bit sad I missed the wake. And no. I understand. But it's rude to tear something down from the memorial wall without knowing why it was put up there. Maybe someone put it up there as a reminder of fighting her or that base star or … well, I dunno. I just don't want it to set a precedent. 'Ohh, this person was too much like a Cylon' and tear it down?" She shakes her head. "It's tricky." She doesn't say much more. "Sorry. Either way, Rejn ended up spitting on Kepner's shoe. This chick almost punched him and didn't seem like she liked me much," One eye closes. "Granted, I wish he wouldn't call me Titsy…"

Constin doesn't dwell either on Richards' offense or apology, acknowledging the words with a short nod, and moving on. "Yeah, well. Special forces tend to be jackasses, as a rule." A thought strikes, and he considers, "What the frak was Rejn doing over here in condition Two anyhow?"

"The memorial was like every other one to be honest," Chris offers to try and make Sofia feel a bit better despite having missed it. "Until someone mentioned this Shaker guy. Caused a lot of the pilots to go all butthurt." Clearing his throat, he reaches up and rubs the back of his neck in typical sheepish Chris fashion.

Sofia sighs and nods. "Well, I said that there were many possibilities, like some thought they did good things or wanted to remember the fight. No one knows why, they have their reasons. I mean, people put boats and dogs up there. I put a ring up there. It's … well, it's personal is my point. People don't have the right to tear stuff off or disliked people would start going… am I stupid for thinking that?" She bites her lower lip… "I guess I am," She smiles and closes her eyes sadly. "I think Kepner hates me for it. I'll write an apology later. Um. Not sure. I guess they still keep him in QUODEL quarters. I go over there to make sure things work and say hi. I know there might be some remodeling for couples, dunno."

Constin hasn't stopped with his thoughtful frown since voicing his question of why Allan Rejn was wandering around the Cerberus and arguing with Kepner, and the ongoing discussion does nothing to drive off that expression. "Huh. Well, now I got another question to answer when I head on duty." An eye turned to the chronometer. "Which is creeping close in a hurry. Catch a word with you lot, later," he drawls in parting as he rises to his booted feet.

Announcement: Volans shouts, "Klaxons sound throughout the ship, Captain Price's voice ringing through the speaker system: "Action stations! Action stations! Set Condition One throughout the fleet! All air wing for immediate launch! This is not a drill!""

Richards shrugs. "Don't worry about apologizing. People who are willing to take offense over…" The announcement and klaxons sound before he can even start to be reassuring, it getting him to sigh. "Sounds like I need to flee. Well, I'll look for you later, kiddo." Getting to his feet, he winks to her once before darting out the hatch, making sure his path towards it takes him past the snack table so he can grab something on the run.

Sofia's jaw drops. "Oh geez. I guess that means I should go on standby too." She pouts. "It was good to see you! I'll see you soon too." She smiles at the wink and waves. She will scoot out to wherever they cage the engineers now.

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