Mycenae Crew: 4,449
Ships in the fleet: 3
Commanding Officer: Commander Demetry Antov
Executive Officer: N/A
CAG: Captain Persephone Joaliss
Ammunition Supplies stores are empty, food supplies are almost depleted. A message containing promise of sanctuary from the Cylons has circulated around the ship.
The sweet sound of salvation tickling their ears, announcing their freedom of the terminated tracker was.. the last thing she could coherently recall.
One thing led to another, and after landing back on board, and managing to haul herself from her Viper, she collapsed.
Scholar couldn’t even remember landing. Couldn’t remember Magik coming quickly to her side as she slumped to the floor. All she could remember was the reassurance they were safe... and then, complete silence. Accompanied by darkness.
A full day later, she woke up. A gasping, startled wake as her eyes shot open and scanned around. She was in the sick bay, again, and this time for her OD on Stims. Apparently she was lucky. For starters, that she held out until landing. And second, for managing that long with so much of the drug in her system.
All the same, she was fine. Rested, fit, but starving like nobodies business. She started gathering herself to leave, since the Doctor dismissed her as stable condition, and to her surprise she peeked up to see Ensign Conoy wander her way. Apparently, he’d been making checks on her since her little collapse in the Hanger Bay. A pleasant surprise, followed by the playful banter in between. A few more moments, and she found herself leaving with him.
Next thing she knew, it was a few days later. Her and Conoy-no, Leoben as she quickly learned, became quite buddy-buddy. She spent most her spare time with him, testing her Triad hand at him, bickering over his nonsense, pondering if it made any actual sense, and laughing at whatever she could find laughable. It was a genuinely decent time.. but aside from that, it was all she really had.
After some time, she found herself back in the Sick Bay. Leoben was off to his own devices, and she felt herself looking about for something-someone. And peeking back in, her eyes quickly fixated on it.
...or Poet’s body, anyways.
She nearly forgot about where he was in the whole mess. Actually, being a bit of a drunken mess a week ago, it didn’t surprise her she was unaware of his situation entirely. She fought Raider’s, he fought full on Centurion’s. Only plus, she had more armor.
Scholar felt a ping of remorse as she looked him over. Beaten, bruised, bloodied and bandaged up. Stroking his bandaged forehead became a one sided gesture as she quickly noticed he was out. Completely. With small breathes making her cringe. “..what the hell didja get yourself into, Poet? What was waiting in there...?”She muttered, before she was quickly redirected to the overhead announcement.
Food. She couldn’t recall when they last had a full portioned meal. In fact, her stomach growled achingly at just the thought, at just the word..
She found herself and a few others rubbing their stomach idly as the transmission cut after that. The promise of protection, food, life.. it was all so promising, was it a dream? After such a mess they wound up in, was their up side finally showing?
Scholar found herself staring up with wide eyes until her mind caught back with itself. She shook her head and looked back down to Poet. Her fingers traced his broken features, and cupped his cheek softly. “..Hear that? We’re going to be completely safe in a matter of minutes.” Scholar cocked a grin, expecting it all to brush over well, but was instead greeted with a Marine coming her way.
And she was led off.
Apparently, the message needed a round of discussion, for who knows why. She was brought to the CO’s Quarters, which was a surprise. And meeting up with a few other familiar faces made her blink a few times. “...guess it’s not so simple.” She muttered.
There was no sound; after all it was a vacuum. With chunks of shrapnel and glass, a bright light shone before Beast like a sun in its final death throes. The explosion of a raider much too close to the Roosevelt’s Viper Mk II sent the cockpit windows, like tiny razors, in all directions. With a hard push on the stick, and a rotation of his hips he managed to swing the bird away from the fire. It was amazing what a pressurized suit would do for a human body in space. If not for its Kevlar woven fibers, Roosevelt would have been puffed like a marshmellow in a microwave. Toast.
Almost in disbelief he began to run his hands down his body, checking for all his extremities. Half in relief and half in hysteria Beast began to cackle, which came in broken waves over the comm. “I’m glad we’re out of here, I’m hanging by a thread, folks.” As the port landing pod began to close in, Beast did his best to aim the bird at the gaping hole. Without wind, there was no drag in space, so the feeling of flying with no wind-shield wasn’t too different except in the mind. Beast almost felt more weightless, as if he could jump right out and touch the stars.
Beast had just lost his ‘nugget’ nickname among the other pilots, but if anyone had seen that landing he may have just earned it back. Any experienced pilot wouldn’t miss the pocket. Then again, he was accustomed to less agile birds. This one felt clumsy; a boy in his father’s shoes. Regardless he had made it alive and without any real harm to himself. The Viper however was hurting to say the least. He stroked the old girl as they heaved her into dry-dock.
“Hey there, Miss Fine, you did well tonight. Sweet dreams, and enjoy your R&R.”
He had taken to talking to his Viper as if one day she would utter something back to him. And the mental state so far from rational thinking that his STIMS had brought on, she just might. Time seemed to be lonely on the Mycenea for Beast. No one seemed to talk to him, maybe because he was new, or maybe because they didn’t trust him. He had heard the rumors circling the pilot rec-room and up and down causeways. Frak them. He was a survivor, and by the looks of things a damn good one. No one could blame him for things he had done, not when so many owed their luxuries at home to him. If anything, he was someone to befriend, he was a man who could get things.
Roosevelt began to contemplate his situation in his rack a week later. He was definitely off rotation for the time being while Miss Fine was in dry dock. His only friend, save a few knuckle draggers that tended to share a drink with him from time to time, was out of commission for an in-determinate amount of time. The officers’ quarters were empty for the most part so he took it upon himself to whip out his pyramid ball. He might not be a Caprica Buccaneer, but he could throw. As he methodically bounced it the ball back and forth, listening for the dull thud on the bulk head he entered a trance. Until suddenly it broke off with a bit of radio static and then a loud message that Beast could only assume was reading across the whole vessel.
“If anyone can hear this, please respond on this channel. This is a looping transmission, from Olympus Station. We have food, shelter, and all the comforts of life. Please, any survivors, respond to this message. We are safe from the Cylons."
It came upon the ear, softly at first, as a song. It was a symphony of delight that meant reprieve to anyone within earshot of the wonderful news. Food was something he had desperately needed. A man with muscle had to eat to keep it, and he could feel his arms growing weaker every day. Comforts were something he never really had before. Well he had them, but only for the amount of time they stowed up in his cargo hold. He never paid for that s**t by himself. But the most reverberating moment, the sweetest sound among the whole transmission was the word OLYMPUS. The home of the gods. What could be more inviting than a station where Aphrodite awaited with soft kisses and Zeus sheltered with hammered lightning fists? Nothing to his knowledge.
Roosevelt had begun to repeat the Pyramid pattern, throwing the black and red ball over and over again when the bulkhead door opened abruptly and a marine took a hit right to the face.
“Gods Damnit! You scared the piss out of me Lieutenant, sir.”
“Frak, what ‘ave I done now that you’re in here botherin’ me about? You can tell the CAG to frak off, my birds down and I earned some rack time. Besides I haven’t…”
Before he could rattle off any more excuses the marine had raised a single hand to signal an abrupt halt. He then reached into his pocket and revealed a small felt covered black case. He didn’t open it, only extended it out, arms length in almost eerie reverence.
“You’re out of uniform…..Sir.”
Roosevelt carefully took the case, biting back some joke about how they used to hand out court-marshalls in plain envelopes before. As he opened up the case, the air was knocked out of him by some un-seen force. There nestled gently in a black velvet cushion were a pair of gold officer lapel pins. The ones he wore now had but one chevron on a matt gold field. The ones before him were a shining gold complete with Colonial logo backed by a star-burst pattern.
“You’re needed on deck in the CIC, Colonel Finch.”
The next moments seemed so surreal to Beast. One moment he was merely a Lieutenant and a fake one at that, and now he had received what was most likely the largest gaped field commission in all of Colonial history, unless some knuckle dragger got promoted to commander that he hadn’t heard of before. He was guided down the causeway, flanked by three Colonial marines until they reached the large glass door labeled CIC. He pushed them open with less panache than he anticipated and was greeted by the hustle and bustle of a well oiled machine. When he reached the middle console where the Commander stood, flanked by Majors and of course the CAG he seemed almost star struck. He threw up a haphazard salute and stammered the best greeting he could.