| Resilience |
| Summary: | The Geek Squad's plan comes closer to fruition. |
| Date: | PHD 274 |
| Related Logs: | Takes place after Insurrection. |
| Players: |
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Corridor: Deck 12
The blueprints are the first things that announce Timon's arrival: two sheets of gridded white paper, each the size of an arm, snapping behind him like the sails of some trireme of old. The next things are the smells: oil, grime, and fuel, all of which cling to his soot-smudged uniform with remarkable tenacity. Evidently he hadn't been joking when he said he'd be slumming with the snipes today. Only the sound of voices carrying through the corridor cause Ivory any sort of pause as he strides through the bowels of the ship — and even then, his footsteps are still falling far more quickly than usual as he rounds the corner to Sickbay.
"Nonsense." Roubani's voice is soft but quite firm on the matter. "We wouldn't leave a man behind off-ship, so I certainly won't do it on. We don't need you passing out in the hallway, do we? Imagine what you'd have to live down. At least let me come sure someone sees to you promptly." He looks down the corridor as someone rounds it, lifting a hand to Timon.
"Dude, here, just… just… just hold on to me, ok, okay?" Kisseus shuffles closer to lend a shoulder to Backfire, his arms seeming paralyzed around the bundle clutched in them. "Just stay here, they'll come. It's quieted down," he tries to assure his fellow Bunny.
There's a sigh: the sound of a man acquiescing. Hopping towards the shoulder offered by Matto, Backfire puts on a straight face and uses him to stay upright and stable. "You guys are so insistent," the Raptor pilot grumbles. "But gods love you guys. Be in a whole different place if it weren't for ya." Another intake of breath, his left hand still applying pressure to the LMG wound currently present on his neck.
"Gods." Ivory doesn't quite slow to a stop, but the sight before him certainly causes him pause. The back of one wrist rises to wipe a bit of sweat from his forehead, which only rubs in the black fluid still streaked about his hair; one blueprint — of a Raptor engine — falls over his face. Blood: he sees it, and he doesn't want to have anything to do with it. His head turns downwards as he finally stops walking, resting his left shoulder against the A-frame to recover some of his breath. For once, Timon isn't quite sure what to say, other than: "This — this probably is a bad time to talk shop."
"Not before tea, Stathis," Roubani chides, weary and completely serious. "Anyway, excuse me. I'll be right back." He holds up a finger as though to punctuate this idea of return within a very short time, and heads down the hallway at quick stride.
Matto is a picture of stability at the moment, a pillar of strength or a temple's column, a far cry from his usual languidity. "It's okay, dude. You, you need some help," he adds. "They'll come. You were, you, you did great, back there," he fumbles around for the words he means before offering them to the guy. He nods to Ivory, a short, shaky gesture.
"Oh hey, no problem, you guys can talk about whatever you want. I'm just kind of. You know. Waiting." There's a little bit of a shrug and a smile before it disappears. Pain kind of makes smiles disappear. Kairos' gaze wanders down to the floor as he just hangs out there at Madman's side, arm propped up on his shoulder. "Thanks guy. You were good too. I just wish it didn't turn out the way it did, you know. Couple of good friend of ours have more detritus in their system than any good pilot should have. Holy crap, did I just use a big word? Fascinating."
Ivory — walking so purposefully just a few moments before — now looks as if the wind's been taken out of his sails, literal and metaphorical both. Indeed, careless hands busy themselves folding one blueprint over the other without regard for symmetry. A second fold, lengthwise this time, and then the papers are stuffed under the crook of his arm before he lowers himself to the ground, unwilling to disturb further the 'moment' being shared by these two returning pilots.
Roubani's footsteps come back up the hall as promptly as promised, quick pace unforgiving of any laggery by the enlisted naval medic behind him. The young corpsman has a wheelchair for what he was told was a patient who'd lost a bit of blood. "Here we are, Lieutenant," says Viper pilot, waving the medic ahead of him. "Not as classy a transport as you're used to, but it'll do."
Matto clings to his flightsuit like it's keeping him attached to ship's gravity, "I didn't… well," he shakes his head, "No, it was nowhere near good. But everyone got back, and… you're gonna be fine," he tells the guy, "Oh, hey, slick, look. First class the rest of the way, dude," he goes on, his voice a little too stiffly stilted for the word choices he's made, but… he's trying. "Are, uh, are. Are you okay, 'vry?" he starts over to ask, now that Ivory's sitting on the floor.
"Nah, dude." Backfire says as he lips towards the wheelchair and sets himself down within it. "This is still traveling in style for me. Thanks again. You guys are awesome. See you when they let me out." There's a bit of a wave from the Raptor Bunny to all of the men who were present before, a slight smile before the medic begins to wheel Kairos towards some assistance. "Chin up, eltee. Another chance will come, I think. Whee!" And with that, the pilot is gone. "I owe you one!" echoes down the hall.
"Better than him." Ivory jerks a thumb in the wounded pilot's direction, still not looking at the wheelchair as it trundles away. "Better than Thorn." Blood drains from his lips as they tighten in some semblance of a smile. "Substantially better than the Cylons, but — " Brown eyes snap over to the other pilots as soon as the squeak of rubberized wheels fades. "Keep busy, right?" Said smile turns sour. "Resilience."
"Mmm." It's hard to tell the exact tone of the sound Roubani makes in response. "If, as they say, death may come for us at any moment, I for one would not want it to be standing about in a hallway." His hand settles back on Kissy's shoulder, as if just to physically remind the man that he's there. "Come on. Tea and quiet, for what minutes there may be." His eyes flicker to Timon to extend the invitation that way, though it's given mostly to Kissy.
Reminding the Kissybear that they'll probably be having to go through that whole shitstorm again, it turns out, is no way to cheer him up at a time like this. Instead, his face just falls. "Resilience," he murmurs back to Ivory. "Gods, he kept on getting up. The Cent was like this sprinkler system of bullets and just every time the spray came around he was on the ground again. Frak," he exhales breathily. "I kept yelling at him to get to his cover, but… he just kept going after them," face twisted into a sort of incredulous grimace, he's racked with a shudder before the hand on his shoulder quiets the shivering a little. "The medicoes told me to rest. I should. Lie down. For just a little bit." A pause, "Tea sounds really nice." He does forget about moving his legs, though, and might continue to until goaded onward.
"No tea for me," Ivory murmurs, still sitting. Inertia is a wonderful thing — and it's inertia that keeps his muscles still as Thorn's actions are described in detail. Only the involuntary twitch in the fingers of his left hand testifies to the fact that he heard any of it, for when he speaks again his voice is oddly blank. "We've been fast-tracked," Timon continues, withdrawing the blueprints from under his arm and shoving them across the floor to where Poet's standing. "The product of five hours spent underneath a Raptor engine with two friendly snipes. I was going to get Thorn to put together the software fix but unfortunately he's — " The pilot's voice catches in his throat before it's cleared out with a cough. "Rebound's already looking over what the snipes gave me, and I’d appreciate it if you could do the same. Deck will give us enough RTP for a few tests at 1100 hours." The silence that follows is a long one. "But we need a test pilot."
"Get up, Ivory." Roubani's voice is respectful but rather firm. Hand still on Matto's arm, he crouches down to pick up the papers and then straightens back up to full height, tucking them under his own arm. "I would bet you my life that Thorn won't at least want to check the patches, in bed or not. I'll give him that dignity, if I have to sit there and hold a PDA in front of his face myself." A soft exhale and he looks at Kisseus. "If you're in the mood to think about something else for a few hours tomorrow, like Ivory says we could use a test pilot. But let's deal with tonight first. Both of you need rest."
"Yeah, I.. I mean… I should sleep, first, and. Tomorrow. I'll think about it tomorrow, okay, guys?" Kissy begs of Ivory a little leeway, voice stiffly apologetic. And tired. Very tired.
"No pressure, Kissy." Ivory's expression softens: he won't be pushing anybody to get in the cockpit of that Raptor, not after his own experience with these and similar experiments. "Anyway. What I need is a shower." Timon rests his head against the bulkhead as he closes his eyes, breathing deeply of the machine-shop smell still lingering about him while attempting to summon up enough energy to get up. It took five seconds for him to get from sixty to zero, so to speak; it'll take slightly longer for that process to be reversed. Eventually, though, he's drained enough from his emergency reserves to push himself to his feet. "We'll go together," he says, eyes still half-closed. "Never trust a journalist to do a computer scientist's job and — " A sigh. "And all that. 1030 work for you?"
Roubani stands there while Timon rights himself again, hands folded behind him. He's still in his unzipped flightsuit, and the bandaged around his left hand was looking a bit gross; who knows how long he's gone without general personal maintenance. Or sleep. But damned if his shoulders aren't still perfectly straight. "1030 should be fine. Actually, we'll make it earlier, gives us more time to let Thorn see this code, if he's lucid." He tips his head towards the hallway. "Come on. We'll start fresh in the morning."
"Yeah." Timon kicks the blueprints towards Roubani before leaning down to help Matto up. "Fresh." More grime is smeared on his cheek by the base of his palm. "Right." And off they go.
