IC: So Say We All


"Well, looks like I gotta talk to the skipper anyhow. But please don't worry, had the Cylons not shown up I doubt things would be as bad." He then calls up to the pilots, "Can you guys see about getting a runner from the galley to bring some food over?"

He then heads out of the raptor and makes his way to the CIC to talk to the CO.

Meleager: Marine Country, Hangar

Corporal Clarence looks closely at the case, then backs away slightly as her eyes widen. "Sorry, Sir, but we definitely do not have a key for that case. We can try our breaching torch on the cable..."


Dragon calls back just as Thompson pops the Raptor's hatch to see several heavily-laden tables of delicious-looking food set up the mandated bare minimum exclusion distance away. "No need. They set up the food practically right outside our hatch. Maybe they read your mind...?"

Noting the abundance of food, Thompson grabs something for Julie as well as a bite for himself before making his way to the CIC. Remembering the path from the last time he double times it and enters while calling out with a quick salute, "Thompson reporting."

Continuing to
Dice Roll: 1d10 1d12 1d10t+21
d10 Results: 3
d12 Results: 5
d10 Results: 8 (Total = 29)
Sum Total: 37
work, the galaxy seems to have fallen away from around Joran. Lost in his own world, the Deck has faded to nothingness and the 1MC is less than a whisper - the only thing filling his mind and body is the music.

Beginning from a single point of light, dawn crests over a shining blue world. The seas rush to and fro, and bring news to the land. Hammerwell again - the Symphony of the Colonies. As the orchestra rumbles to life, the thin brass meanders as if in speech, playing from either side of the pit - call and response. Back and forth they call, each time changing the melody slightly, as if a game of telephone. Finally, with a deep blast from a tuba, the trumpets and horns are silenced. A demand from the tuba, asking for truth. A lone violin, in a trembling, hesitant voice, begins to respond, playing the original melody slowly and in pianissimo. The brass argues back, and the violin answers, softly, but true. The argument picks up speed until the violin answers with a MUCH louder note-
"No, no, NO!" his instructor shouts, turning off the audio track of the rest of the orchestra.

The memory is as tangible as if it were still happening - and in a way, it was still happening, and always had been inside of him. Joran is a young man, just a few weeks shy of his 16th birthday, and he and his tutor had been working on Hammerwell's Symphony of the Colonies. While the progress he's made in the past year in learning to play his new instrument, he is still the thorn in his instructor's side. He removes the violin from underneath his chin, dropping his bowing arm - now sore from repeated practice - down to his side to let it rest.

"What is it now, Mr. Conoy? I played up to fortississimo - isn't that right?"

man in front of Joran sighs, running his hand through the shock of his blonde hair. He starts to speak, but sees the look in Joran's eyes and pauses, licking his lips while he softens his tone.

"Joran, it's not about the technical execution - yes, the notation calls for fortississimo, but you weren't listening to the orchestra and their responses. The year that this was played, the musical trends had been changing, calling for less militant anthems and a softening of what they had. While the Aquaria Movement is arguably the least militant part of the Symphony - in its themes of truth over popularity, resistance to peer pressure, and the confidence that the light of truth gives you - it was still affected."

Standing up and coming over to Joran, he holds out his hands for the violin. Shouldering the instrument, he begins to play the part, without the accompaniment. As the quiet, trembling, plaintive notes fill the room, Joran can hear the orchestra anyway, can feel it roll through him. Continuing to play, the man speaks once more, his voice gaining the confidence and timbre of the violin - becoming stronger, smoother, more dulcet and persuasive.

"You have to feel the music, Joran. Can you hear it? The young boy is growing into a man, finding his place in the world. He is taking action for himself, learning to do things on his own instead of always following orders. He is learning to discern what the truth is, and to apply to it. He feels the divine inside himself, God inherent in himself. He acts, possibly atrociously according to his peers, but according to his will, the will of God. He is as the representative of the people, the voice of the Quorum, shouting out that, with the death of the President, no matter what the law may say, the Vice President MUST NOT ASCEND, that there is another choice, the one who leads to true salvation, and the VICE PRESIDENT MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO LEAD..."
The music builds, and then begins to fade, acquiescing to the violin's strength, the light of truth in its lone soaring song, all of this causing the room around him to darken except in a spotlight around his instructor - impossibly bright, and white, and yet his angular face still visible, his blue eyes boring into Joran's, making his message drill home within him...

Suddenly, the volume of the 1MC seems to tear into his reverie, and Joran drops the spanner he was using down onto his chest. Startled, the memory reverberates in his head a moment. Strange that he should be thinking of his old tutor of all things today. Glancing up at the struts, he realizes that dropping the spanner meant he hadn't finished bolting the last strut in place and had sheared the bolt off. Not wanting to start all over immediately, he grabbed a tag and noted the point of the repair on the skid, so that his team could do it properly now that they were standing down from Condition 1. Rubbing at the throbbing spot between his ribcage and his shoulder, he rolls his creeper out from under the Viper. Best not to keep the Skipper waiting...

Meleager CIC

Major Deering easily returned Thompson's salute, then waved him to stand at ease before she turned back to her plotting table...and her large variety-platter of donuts off to one side. Thompson's nose detected what smelled like every kind of donut known to the Colonies, along with what seemed to be fresh-squeezed orange juice and what smelled like actually Aquarian Spatanos-Archipelago Coffee. If that coffee was in the massive urn that was revealed as Major Deering moved to the other side of her plotting table and motioned him to be 'At Ease' and move up to the plotting table, then Thompson was in the presence of at least 3,000 cubits worth of coffee. As his wandered over the sorted variety of donuts as the Major invited him to partake with a nod of her head, his eyes caught a unique outline in the doughnuts.

It was the symbol of Gaiman & Whedon, the hands-down best coffee club and donut bar in the Twelve Colonies. (They also had top-rate ice cream, sandwiches, pizza, and other breakfast pastries, but no one could match their coffee or donuts.) The say unique engram was present on the massive coffee urn. But how did a Fleet Major get what smelled like just-baked doughnuts and freshly-brewed coffee when the nearest location was on Caprica?

"Give me your debriefing, Mister Thompson, about the events aboard the Colonial Yacht Tinker Bell. Yeoman Chambers here-" Major Deering nodded to a perky, friendly-looking redhead. "-types right at one-hundred-and-thirty words a minute on a slow day, so just lay it out." The Major's lips quirked slightly. "You are, of course, welcome to all of the refreshments. They're on me; the rest of the crew is getting fed off the usual--high-quality--fare, but I figured the CIC--and my intrepid 'Recovery Team'--could us something special for their hard efforts. Just leave my fudge-frosted custard-filled eclairs alone." She smiled tightly as she point to a large plate, still mostly covered with doughnuts, on her side of the table.

"So get yourself some refreshments and start when you're ready, Thompson."

3LT Sampson Fuller
Life Points:18/18 Plot Points 7/7

All Dressed Up
Fuller listened to the squawk and nodded his head before returning Goshan's smile. "Seems you have a reprieve from sticking to me like glue Goshan. Tinnies don't want to play with us at the moment."

She was undeniably and distractingly cute at the moment. It was interesting, because whereas Zelena was sexy in a "My God my mother would freak if she saw me with this girl" kind of way, Adoree was . . . adorable. Sampson shook his head as a smile crossed his face. It was his way of telling himself to behave for a bit.

"However, before I meet with the Major who is undoubtedly swamped, I should wait for Adama's return from Thompson's crew and meet with that last shuttle. Care to stick with me a little longer?"

Meleager Hangar

"No Sir." Adoree smiled slightly.

Thompson had instantly taken note of all the smells around him from food whose presence baffled him, but shrugged it off as just something the skipper was able to obtain. CO's had power, and this one demonstrated an exceptional amount. When ordered to give his report he relay's everything, as it happened, to her. He took special note to describe the devices he disarmed and the fact that they were updated Cylon tech and that no "toasters" had been found. The implications would be enough to make those without proper knowledge of intel into Cylon military crap their pants. Upon delivering the full report he stood by, waiting for a response, before addressing another topic, that of the codes for the "party favors".

2nd LT Stryker

Looking down at the case and his hand rahter dubiously. "Well, Corp...if you have a gear head that won't burn off my hand at the sametime...Sure, we can try that. Oh, boy."

Looking at the pistol racks..."You would happen to have any D117 Boarding Revolvers around would you? And, what do you have in a nice heavy SMG or Carbine flavour?"

Meleager: CIC, Marine Ready Bay

"Good, concise, and accurate report, First Class Thompson. You haven't touched the refreshments and are standing by silently with a serious look on your face, so what is it?" Major Deering's voice was slightly strained--she was obviously already feeling the stress of being the Master-After-The-Gods of a combatant in a shooting war--but did not sound annoyed...just interested in being blunt and getting things done as effectively (and, if possible, efficiently) as she could.


Corporal Clarence looks closely at the case, the cable, and the shackle around Stryker's wrist, then has a conversation over the wireless on a two-way link Stryker can't hear for two minutes as Clarence hands Stryker a D117, 18 rounds of .75 Tamris (Vacuum), a set of CABA Mark I Body Armor (with the name "J. Buckley" emblazoned on it, accompanied by the rank markings of a First Lieutenant), an encrypted wireless set with a headset, and a hydration system/pouch harness combination. She then looks up at him, looks at the name on the Armor, looks at him really hard, and then speaks in a flat monotone.

"We have CAL USG forty-fives, Picon P90s, D102 Boarding Carbines, and a Vecter M101 'Special Application' Carbine. What's your flavor, Sir?" She continues to stare at him with a hard glint before briefly speaking up again. "Oh, and our resident 'security expert' is confident that anything besides the proper key that removes that case from your wrist is taking the lower forearm, if not the whole arm, with it." She returns to respectfully glaring at Stryker. (How you can respectfully glare eludes Striker, but Clarence is doing so. Quite well, actually.)

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