First Night
First Night
Summary: Hiding out in an abandoned building after the crash, the Paros group of survivors weigh their situation.
Date: PHD072
Related Logs: Takes place in the wee hours of the morning after the events of Three Hour Tour - Foxbat Three.

Scorpia - Paros

In their little abandoned building, Roubani has spent most of his time somewhere he can see outside. Next to a broken window or a bombed-out section of wall, perhaps. Crouched down with his shoulder against some fallen stone, he watches the stillness outside while the others patrol, sleep, or do their thing otherwise.

"Ensign," Thorn is restless; he's not on patrol duty and he doesn't feel like sleeping. He's had enough of pacing as well, so he comes up to join Roubani at the window. He does the patdown; yes, even on a potentially dangerous mission, he's made sure to have cigarettes with him. Maybe, especially on a potentially dangerous mission would be more apt. "Want a smoke?" He takes one for himself, lighting it quickly before offering one to Roubani.

The square shape in Roubani's front jacket pocket might be a battered pack of his own. Nevertheless, he looks up and nods, reaching over to accept. "Thank you, sir. You can have one of mine later if you like." The Ensign's voice is soft as ever, as it would be regardless of whether anyone was trying to catch a few winks of fitful sleep. After a moment he adds, as he ashes the cigarette gently, "Would you like to sit?"

"Sure, thanks," Komnenos responds, slumping down next to the opening and positioning himself across from the ensign. He sits in silence for a few seconds, puffing thoughtfully. Finally, he speaks. "Hell of a time, what, Ensign?" Thorn asks sardonically, his tone matching Roubani's softness. "How're you holding up?"

Roubani's eyes have turned back to the wreckage outside. A corner of his mouth tugs into a ghost of a half-smile. "I can't complain, sir, given the alternatives we've witnessed so far." The cherry on the cigarette flares briefly as he drags from it; he keeps it turned in his hand so his palm shields it from the window. "Yourself?"

"About the same." Thorn briefly surveys the view from the window, looking over the view of the ruined city. "We certainly could be worse off, t' be sure." He blows a smoke ring, which quickly dissipates in the breeze. "Still not quite sure about our new friend, though. Seems awfully bloody convenient t' me, that he should just happen t' show up as we crash and fall under attack." He sighs quietly, ashing his cigarette. "Or maybe I'm just overthinking it again." Another look out the window, and then Thorn's eyes turn to Roubani. "I want to see if we can get the Raptor flightworthy again. Find our people and get the frak out of here."

"My concern about a Raptor would be its likelihood of attracting raiders," Roubani murmurs quietly. His voice is as level as his eyes, which are watching the bombed-out skeleton of a building across the way. "We may be less defended on foot or in the van, but we are also less visible." The matter of Alex isn't addressed quiet yet. The pilot-turned-engineer's mind works in order.

"That's true," Thorn nods in concession, "but I just don't like the idea of being stranded on this planet, surrounded by bulletheads." For all that he may try, Thorn's never been much good at a measured tone; his rough Aerilon accent rolls from his lips unevenly. It'd be a mistake to interpret that as a lack of intelligence or thoughtfulness, though. "If we have the Raptor, we have a backup escape plan. We wouldn't necessarily fly it everywhere — you mentioned the Raiders — but at least we'd have the option."

Roubani nods to that. It's a subtle motion that barely moves his head. "We can at least assess it. We may not even have the materials to repair it." Someone's got to be the pessimist, right? He exhales quietly through his nose, the breath taking a while to fully deplete. "Did either of you get any readings on which way Captain Legacy's Raptor may have been going when we lost contact? It would at least give us a starting direction if nothing more."

"It's worth it t' at least give it a look, though." Usually the pessimist himself, Thorn can't fault Roubani's outlook. Especially when the younger man is right. Unfortunately, Thorn can't afford to be a pessimist at the moment. "Nothing definitive, although I do remember being slightly preoccupied with a couple of Raiders at th' time," he adds deadpan in response to Roubani's question. "DRADIS was a mess at th' time, but I can tell you she can't be too far from here. Direction is anyone's guess, but my best estimate would put her somewhere within a 25 kilometer radius of our location." He pauses. "I'd be able t' tell you more exactly, though, with those data banks the Chief pulled out of the Raptor."

Roubani's eyes flicker. That's a lot of square meters to cover. "I suppose so." He gets another drag off his cigarette and moves his hand to the side of his leg to flick his thumb against the filter. "You don't trust that man?" Gearshift. His tone is neutral.

"Ensign, this time a week ago I was sitting on Kharon believing that the people on that ship were the last of humanity in existence." There's an edge in Thorn's tone now, though it doesn't seem directed at anyone or anything in particular. There's a puff of ash as he flicks his cigarette; the sudden violence of that movement contrasts with Roubani's subdued efficiency. "So, yes, maybe I'm a little skeptical. Aren't you, even a little?"

"What else would he be?" It takes Roubani a moment to ask that, as though he were calculating his words first. Where the question should have had an 'oh come now' kind of undertone, it doesn't.

Well, Thorn, he's sort of got you there. After all, Cylons don't look like humans, do they? "I don't know. I'm not saying he is something else. I only think it's a good idea t' keep our guard up until we know him a little better." He chuckles humorlessly. "You think I'm being paranoid, don't you?"

Roubani's eyes shift back to Thorn, regarding the Lieutenant. There's a taut little thread of tension in his brows, the lingering result of some thought that comes and goes. "No, sir, I don't." He looks away and lifts his cigarette. "Men can be dangerous, after all. Who knows his nature or what this all may have done to his mind."

Komnenos grunts. "He's not a potential Cylon, then, just potentially crazy. Why does that not make me feel better, I wonder?" He shakes his head. "Of course, we could both be wrong, and he could be perfectly sane and exactly what he says he is. Who th' frak knows?" Thorn can't help but marvel at the view from the window; for the past couple months he didn't figure he'd see any of the Colonies again. Even if this wasn't quite what he had in mind. "Touched in the head or not, though, he's all we've got at the moment, and I can't say I like that."

Roubani looks back at Komnenos again, and one thin brow starts up towards his hairline. "Potential…cylon, sir?"

"It's called sarcasm, Ensign," Thorn replies mildly, although it's not without a dash of self-recrimination at his poor choice of words. "I'm not going that far just yet. Skepticism is one thing, calling someone a Cylon is another. Besides, I'd think we'd be able t' tell if he was a bullethead, wouldn't you?"

Roubani smiles thinly. It moves the corners of his mouth, but not his eyes. "I should hope." He taps his thumb against his cigarette, now looking at his knees. His brows flicker together. "Sir? Did you ever wonder if…I don't know." For a second it seems he might back off the question, then he goes on. "I mean, every war has…its turncoats, right?"

Now, that was unexpected. Thorn turns slowly, slumping back against the wall. "The thought of a man helping the Cylons t' destroy his own people…" His head shakes slowly, side to side. "Human nature being what it is… what you're suggesting isn't impossible. If you're right, though, and there are some of us depraved enough t' actually have helped them… maybe humanity really doesn't deserve t' survive." Another smoke ring spills from Thorn's lips. "Yeah, Ensign, the thought had crossed my mind, however briefly, and I hate the fact that it did, but — " He throws out his arms, as if to drive home where they are. " — it's a sign of th' times."

Roubani sucks a slow drag from his cigarette as Thorn talks. His eyes stay down on his bent knees, arms folded atop them. "Yes. But something not outside the realm of human nature…in an awful way." His voice gets even more quiet as they talk about such a thing. "If it came to be that your family's lives might be spared if you did, would it not cross your mind?" The 'you' in this doesn't seem aimed particularly at the Jig. The whole thing sounds rhetorical, and indeed he doesn't let a pause in for an answer. "I don't like the thought of there having been…or there being, now…people like that either but it's a thought I can't say I haven't entertained. Especially here."

Thorn smokes thoughtfully. It's not a pleasant topic, but given the group's current circumstances, it seems to be worth discussion. "Well, Ensign," he replies finally, "there's nothing t' be done about it now. All we can do is keep our eyes open, in case the worst-case scenario comes true." A flick of the wrist sends the spent cigarette to the ground, where a boot quickly crushes it. "We've got good people with us, and Ivory is smart. We'll get through this." Another sarcastic smile. "Or we'll die. Either way."

The corner of Roubani's mouth pulls into a slight smile. "Is that how they taught pep talks at academy, sir?" Despite the gravity of the situation and their conversation, he lightly teases the superior officer.

Thorn snorts. "I should hope not." He laughs despite himself. "Nobody ever accused me of being inspirational." A wink. "I was an OCS grad, anyway." He returns Roubani's teasing with a bit of his own, glad for the injection of mirth into their conversation.

"You were?" Roubani asks the question quietly. His cigarette's about to burn his fingers, and he drops it to the ground by his boot. His heel moves just enough to crush it, then he folds his arms back over the tops of his knees.

Sensing a bit of autobiography coming on, Komnenos settles into a slightly more comfortable position against the wall. "Yeah. Tencher AB, on Caprica. Came in with a master's in computer science," he answers matter-of-factly. "Didn't know what I wanted to do other than not go back for more school, so?" He shrugs. "Decided t' join the Fleet and see the stars."

Perhaps Roubani asked out of genuine interest in Komnenos. Or perhaps simply to avoid the eerie silence of their surroundings. He rests his chin down behind his folded arms, mostly hiding his mouth. "You're from Aerelon." Half-observed, half-questioned.

"The accent give it away, did it?" Thorn replies with a crooked smile. "Aerelon. Rolling hills and fields as far as the eye can see. Not exactly the most thrilling place in the Colonies."

"I had only heard the accent in films before the military," Roubani murmurs, sounding embarassed for a moment. "To hear it now, I don't believe a studio ever hired a real person from Aerelon."

Komnenos' smile turns into a full-fledged grin. "Now, come on, Poet, when was the last time the movies cared about accuracy?" He kicks idly at a bit of loose stone on the floor. "Why would they, when they want everyone t' sound Caprican anyway?" He's still teasing, but the last point is sometimes a sensitive one for those from the so-called five lesser colonies.

Roubani makes a subtle movement of his head, a little nod. "I suppose that's why every dialect was simply Caprican with a different speech impediment." He manages a weak smile at this general attempt of levity. It's not completely working, but better than nothing. His eyes flicker back to the broken window. "Had you ever seen Scorpia before?"

"AYIE!" *thump* *silence* A little ways off, Jules wakes up in a burst of moving limbs, only to fall off the box she was resting on top of and hit the floor. Face first. "Ow."

From the battered door to this makeshift shelter suddenly comes a soft knock — two raps in quick succession, then silence, and then another rap. Yes, Timon actually came up with a secret knock — he's paranoid like that. If the folks inside look through the window, they'll observe that the lieutenant has come bearing gifts: several gifts, as a point of fact, if the yellow plastic grocery bag he's holding in his left hand is any indication. Ivory taps his foot against the ground impatiently, waiting for somebody to open up. He has no intention of remaining in the exposed foyer for longer than he has to. The armed marine next to him looks like he shares the sentiment.

Thorn snickers at the former, and shakes his head at the latter. "No, never been. I went to school on Caprica and Gemenon, but I'd never been off Aerelon before that. My parents were hermit academics." He stops himself, raising an eyebrow at the sudden crash of movement behind him. "You all right back there, Jules?" he calls out as he gets up and goes to open the door.

The knock doesn't quite startle Roubani but it does make his shoulders go a bit tense. Secret knock or not. His left hand sets down on top of his pistol and his eyes stay on Komnenos' back as the man gets up. "Evening, Private," he murmurs, without looking over for the time being.

"Oh I'm fine. I was just dreaming of Cylons eating my tasty flesh." Jules picks her face up off the ground first, levering herself up into a sitting position on the floor without putting too much strain on her injured leg. "Evening, sirs."

"Thanks, Thorn." Timon hustles inside, shutting the door behind him as quickly as he can without making too much of a din. "Did some shopping. That Niolo, Nikolo — whatever — wasn't lying: you can pick this stuff up like candy, and the Cylons don't care." Slowly, he hobbles toward one of the boxes near Jules before setting himself down with a sigh, bag of goodies falling open besidde him.

"So, what'd y' bring me?" Thorn asks deadpan as he surveys the bounty. "Looks intriguing." He starts poking in one of the bags experimentally.

"Nice haul, sir," Jules leans over and reaches for a chocolate bar from the bag. Then, lifting her chin, she eyes Timon's leg and asks, "You had that looked at yet, si— Ivory, that is?"

Roubani takes his hand off the pistol once he can hear Timon's voice clearly. His eyes follow the bags, though he doesn't move to get near them. "Is it safe to eat them?"

"Whoa, whoa." The lieutenant smiles dimly. "More questions and I'll start asking you to raise your hands. Thorn, I found you this." He slides over a battered pack of smokes to the ECO, with about two or three cigarettes remaining inside. Blood is splattered across the side of the box. "And as for the rest, I couldn't get much. But some is better than nothing." Here's a dented can of baked beans; there's a tiny tin of tuna. Luckily, both of them are sealed, though whether or not that'll stop radiation is another question entirely. "Oh. And there's this, too." Timon chuckles to himself as he pulls out a long, slender item — yes, it's a toothbrush. "Couldn't find any paste to go with it, but what can you do." Then, to Jules: "No."

Jules frowns at Timon for a second and just shakes her head, frown turning back into a smile. She scoots her butt closer and warns, "I might have to take off your pants." A reach behind her and she tugs her backpack into view, rummaging around inside of it for a bit.

Thorn smirks, taking the remaining cigarettes from Ivory's pack and adding them to his. "Supplying my habit now, Ivory? Didn't think you'd slip that low." An eyebrow raises at Jules' proclamation, and he lights one of his new cigarettes with a smile.

Roubani's attention follows the toothbrush for a few seconds, then flicker away. He gently drapes his arms over his knees, hands clasped in front with his good hand covering the weakened one.

Uh-huh. That's what he was afraid of. "Can I order you not to?" Timon asks plaintively. "I'll even let you say 'sir' again." His ECO'll know just how fidgety the pilot gets when forced to disrobe in front of others — the man doesn't even take off his shirt in public to show off those pasty white pecs of his.

"Modesty is a virtue," Jules offers as she comes up with her first aid kit. It's opened and placed on the ground next to her as she maneuvers so she's by Timon's knee. First thing she does is look it over, sticking her fingers gingerly through the hole in his flightsuit to keep the fabric out of the way. "Anybody see any more centurions after the battle yesterday?"

"We can give you some privacy if you like, sir," Roubani murmurs the offering, even shifting forward to prepare to stand up. If anything his voice sounds empathetic to Timon's plight. He's the Ensign that gets dressed in the shower stall rather than come out in a towel. "It's best you have that looked at. With all due respect, you can't afford not to."

Thorn is trying to suppress a smirk at Timon's sudden discomfort and failing miserably. "He's right, you know, Ivory." He's able to at least suppress the laughter from his voice. "You're going t' have t' get that looked at eventually." He's still puffing away, pausing long enough to take a drag. "What'll it be, Ivory, life, or humiliation?"

"Yeah." To Poet. Timon's a prude, not an idiot, which is why he cooperates when the marine moves over. The wound isn't too severe, Jules will see. A tiny piece of shrapnel from a Cylon KEW has embedded itself about a quarter of a centimeter under his left knee, the metal still visible amidst a crust of blood. "Just pluck it out and pour some peroxide on it," says Timon, expert in first aid that he is. "Snip off the fabric if you have to. It's all bloody anyway." Thorn gets a dirty look. "And no, no Centurions, though I didn't venture past the place where we set down our van. Which we'll need to move, at some point. Toasters are bound to start looking for us soon."
Jules has reconnected.

Regardless of what Timon decides to do, Roubani loosely folds his arms as he stands up, turning to look out the window instead. It puts his back to Timon, which is the best he can offer while still staying in earshot. "We need to know where we are. We can't just run aimelessly."

"What about the Raptor?" Thorn asks, suddenly all business again. "We're not just going t' leave it there, are we?" He looks over to Roubani for a moment as their discussion from earlier flashes in his mind. "Between myself, Roubani, and the chief, we might be able to do something with it… at least maybe make it flightworthy, if not spaceworthy." A glance over at Jules. "I haven't seen any Centurions lately, no. So we might have enough time t' do it."

It's going to hurt," Jules warns, nodding at Timon's approximation of what needs to happen. She reaches into her kit, coming up with a pair of tweezers in a sterilization pouch. It's torn open and without further ado, she leans in and neatly plucks out the piece of metal from the pilot's leg. Aside from the dried blood, it comes out smoothly.

"I'm not talking about running. Not yet." Timon closes his eyes as he puts more of his weight on his back, gritting his teeth in pain as the private does her job. Yet somehow, he still talks, though his words are halting. "But we parked within walking distance of this place, and when the Cylons see a car in a new location — well, they're not morons. This place'll be crawling with foot patrols the moment they figure it out. Frankly, I'm surprised we haven't seen shit." The lieutenant smiles grimly. "And Thorn, I haven't got eyeballs on Foxbat-3, but I'll bet the metalheads are all over her by now."

"I mentioned to Lieutenant Komnenos," Roubani says quietly, "That my concern about using the Raptor is its attractiveness to raiders. If it is flightworthy, flying it around is like setting out honey for bees. And if it is spaceworthy, what then? The Kharon is either blown to bits or has undoubtedly left the area to regroup. And we know there is heavy raider presence up there that one Raptor can't fight." Less pessimist now than devil's advocate, laying out all things to be considered. "It is worth looking into, but I stay doubtful it should be what we stake our hopes on."

"I'm not pinning my hopes on it, Ensign," Thorn interjects. A little defensively, perhaps, as that little rough edge slips back into his voice, but that's Thorn. "I merely think a potential resource shouldn't be allowed t' go t' waste, considering the position we're in. If nothing else, we can at least strip it of anything we can use before we move on."

"I agree with you, Poet." Because Timon's going to be the one flying the thing into the midst of aforementioned Raiderswarm. "And I say again, that's assuming the Raptor's even there to begin with." The pilot shakes his head. "But if the Cylons have miraculously ignored the bird in their midst, it's worth going back if only to grab the Mark-Niner on her wing." Brown eyes open to look at the bullet, widening as they see blood — his own. "That's our communications drone, for you non-pilot types. Maybe Thorn and the Chief can fix us up with a makeshift wireless so we can phone home." There's that wan smile again. "Unless you guys like living in this veritable vacation paradise."

"Hrm." Jules eyes the wound like she expected it to be more difficult to treat, then sets the tweezers and metal bit aside. Next up are sterile pads and peroxide. The peroxide is poured onto the wound, the pads are pressed against it after a few seconds. "Looks like it should be okay after a couple of days." She doesn't comment on the raptor convo.

"Yes, sir," Roubani replies. That's to Thorn, the standard answer from a junior when a senior's feathers sound ruffled. As Timon speaks his back's still politely turned, and he nods. Then shakes his head, after a quick fix. "Paradise, no. Not much, sir." He pauses, exhaling quietly through his nose. "That other Lieutenant…did he say he was from around here?"

Battlestar Pegasus." Thorn replies. He finishes his cigarette, and evidently has enough nicotine for now, as he doesn't light another. "How he got here, I'm not sure, but…" He shrugs. "I do remember him saying he was from Pegasus." Then, back to Ivory, with a nod of acknowledgement. "Get me the drone, and we'll do what we can." He's done bringing up the Raptor; truth be told, it wasn't a great idea anyway. He can't help feeling, though, that without having the Raptor around, the Raptor ECO with the group suddenly becomes dead weight.

"Thanks, kid. Er — soldier." Timon isn't trying to condescend, but he used to teach classes to students about her age and still retains some of the mannerisms. "As for Mysterious Stranger — yeah. Pegasus. Think he said he was on vacation when the shipyards were hit. Frakking lucky to be alive, that one." The profanity flows a bit more freely from him now that he's not aboard Kharon. "And really, Poet, drop the 'sirs.' That goes for all of you. This'll sound horribly cliche, but we're all alone in the middle of nothing and the last thing I want is for rank to get in the way of a good idea. You think something's stupid, you let me know as loudly as you can — just as long as a) we're in no need to act immediately and b) you have no problem with getting overruled."

"I'm trying, s—… I really am." Jules starts putting away the medkit. "Call me Sunshine, then. That's what everyone in my unit calls me. It helps keep me positive." Shoving the medkit into her pack, she pushes it out of the way and then pulls herself unsteadily to her feet.

Roubani is an engineer without any engines. He's leading the dead weight group at the moment, hop aboard. He unsnaps the front flap of his jacket pocket, fishing a cigarette from his own dwindling supply. He keeps his eyes down as he lights it, shielding the flame from any view from outside the window. He glances back towards Timon, carefully at first to be certain the man's not de-pantsed, and then more fully. The 'no sirring' rule twitches a look of discomfort across his face, but he nods. "What is our next step?" He asks Timon. Managing to leave the 'sir' off with effort, though it's tough to keep the formality out of his tone with a question like that.

Komnenos, for the moment, stays silent. His eyes pass from one person to another, finally resting on Timon, waiting for the fearless leader to answer the question. Ah, the burdens of command.

And Timon is a pilot with no ship. Yeah, this is a group of all-stars, all right. But Timon still manages to laugh at the private's nickname — and then winces. Probably best to not jolt the body around for another few minutes. "That doesn't sound insulting enough for a callsign, but I've never understood you jarheads anyway. But as to our next move: well." The lieutenant's voice becomes sober. "Anybody thought to inventory what we've got? I'll start: four armor-piercing rounds, two clips, and two medkits from the Raptor. Done. Sunshine?"

"I kinda like the nickname. I've had it since boot. Drill Sergeant loved to give out nicknames." Jules rolls her shoulders and says, "Just keep pressing that pad on the wound. I'll be back in a few to put a clean bandage on and you should be good to go for now." Then she stumps off towards the door.

Since they're going through pockets, Roubani pats down his own, and his belt. The latter jangles softly. "Three AP rounds, two clips left. Medkit. Multitool. Lighter." That last is tossed out there because hell, when it's all you've got it's all you've got. "There are some more tools left in the Raptor that I couldn't get before we left it." his eyes look over at Jules as she starts to walk out.

"Still have all six AP rounds, both clips, and a mostly full pack of smokes." Thorn chips in with his own personal inventory. "Plus my ration of anti-rads, multitool, flashlight, and notepad." Yeah, flight suits have a lot of pockets.

"Wish I'd been as lucky. Anyway, get me a list from your marines while you're up and at it," he says, obediently pressing down on the wound. Then — "If we're counting the random shit, I have an annotated flight manual and a pair of iodine pills, plus anti-rads of my own. Mysterious Stranger's got a lot more of those, or so he says, but we'll deal with that when he gets back. Next step — food. I've got these tins I found and my MRE."

"I'll be right back, just need to make a tinkle," Jules explains, reaching down to her waist to pull out her own sidearm and flick the safety off. Then she's out the door, securing it behind her.

"Anti-rads, yes." Roubani murmurs, sliding his hand into his left pocket to search. "Magnet-charged maglite. I believe I have a laser pointer." Team Nerd FTW. "I've my rations issued from the Kharon, and a few extra saltines. Oh…" He digs his hand back out of his pocket, holding a few wrapped candies, and clears his throat softly. "Those were for Eos."

"Got a couple MREs — and I plan t' make them last, too." Thorn casts a doubtful look at the food Ivory recovered; it's probably irradiated to all hell. He's pragmatic enough to know that eventually there won't be a choice other than irradiated food, he just wants to put it off as long as possible. Hopefully the anti-rads hold out. "Any tools or electronics I had are probably still in the Raptor." He does one last patdown before spreading his hands. "Think that's all I've got."

Timon's face grows even paler at the count. "So the moral of the story is, this Stranger — " Saying 'mysterious stranger' is getting too unwieldy even for Timon, who swoons whenever he hears a big word. " — had better have one hell of a larder. And even if he does, we'll need to start raiding markets if we want to live for more than a few days, what with all the people we have on board." Something to ask Sunshine about when she gets back. "Step three: the Raptor. Do we want to go find her?"

At this Roubani remains silent to let Thorn speak first. Ah the intricacies of rank and talking when one shouldn't.

"Find her, at th' very least, yes," pipes up Thorn immediately, but then again, his feelings on the matter are clear. "I'm convinced trying t' fly her is a bad idea, but we can at least strip the bird of anything we can use. Com drone, any extra supplies, whatever we can find." He goes back to quickly address Ivory's other points. "We should probably organize foraging details, as well, and talk to our new friend about these supplies of his."

"One vote for stripping." Timon doesn't acknowledge the double-entendre. "Poet?"

Roubani opens his mouth. Then gives Timon a slight eye. Trap avoided, he softly clears his throat. "I agree, sir." Crap. "…er, Ivory."

Thorn looks from Poet to Ivory, remaining silent as the ensign weighs in, and then as he waits for Ivory to make a decision.

"We have an accord. Never let a good bird go to waste, as they say." Yet another thing that has to be taken to the CMC. "Sure hope the Marines are okay with us running out there," Timon murmurs aloud. "Okay, step four: the van. Chances are we're going to need it if we want to bring that drone back home; chances are the more we use it, the bigger guns the Cylons'll start bringing into the field, and the more they'll start looking for us. Do we use it? Ditch it somewhere far away? Switch cars?"

"I don't think we have any choice but t' use it," Thorn ventures. "You're right, we'll need it t' get that drone, and without it we're only as fast as our slowest set of legs."

Roubani nods slightly at what's been said. "The van may also be able to outrun centurions themselves. I'm not certain how quickly they can move at top speed. But it's better speed, provides storage and a place to camp, and provides power shuold we need it. My concern is gas, but that is something we'll have to deal with along the way."

"So we need the van." Ivory's in full brainstorming mode now — leaning backwards, toothbrush spinning back and forth between his thumb and middle finger, brows as furrowed as ever. "But that leaves the problem of it being a massively obvious pointer saying 'Cylons, Look Here!'" The pilot considers for a few seconds. "What about switching hideouts every so often? We move during the day to reduce the relative strength of our thermal signature as much as we can. Though the transits will almost certainly be risky — and another thought: multiple cars. The Chief seems like she can hotwire while sleepwalking — so let's start moving what cars we can around town, throw the Cylons off. If everything's moving, reduces the likelihood that they'll focus only on the one. Chaff, if you will."

Komnenos shrugs. "Sounds like a plan t' me." The allusion to ECM works perfectly for Thorn as he pictures what Ivory has in mind. A fine piece of misdirection, if the fates prove to be kind. "We'll want t' plan it out a bit more conclusively than that before heading out, of course," he clarifies. "But in general, I agree."

"Forgive me for bringing up the obvious…" Roubani's soft voice interjects. "We know there's a cylon presence in this city; staying anywhere in the vicinity for long won't be good. Lieutenant Komnenos said the Raptor might have data that could steer us towards where Captain Legacy's crew may have gone down. Or if not that, perhaps it might have data on Captain Marek's trajectory. At least general directions." He glances at Thorn for confirmation. "If we can get that…"

"Maybe we got lucky. I had the Chief pull out the main data drive from the Raptor before we were forced to abandon her. If we can find a working terminal somewhere in this city and the relevant info's been stored, bingo: we know where we're going next. But finding that terminal will take time, as will raiding the Raptor herself, as will everything else. Hence moving those cars. Moving ourselves. Don't want to be sitting ducks just waiting to be picked off." Timon explains in a flurry of words. "And in the meantime, we damn well better hope the Cylons don't just decide to be done with us and nuke the whole frakking city again, this time with us in it." Timon's gaze drifts over to the broken window.

"Then we'd probably get t' work here soon, what?" Thorn responds to Ivory's noises about urgency. "I'd say let our people rest a little longer, bring our new friend in t' chat for a bit, then set the Chief to work." The Raptor man's arms fold across his chest expectantly. "Sounds like we've got a lot t' do."

"What kind of terminal?" Roubani sits down on the cracked window ledge, folding his hands between his knees. "If I can get to my kit in the Raptor I can check if it's got one of our handheld computers…I don't know if that will be compatible." Data, he can do, but raptor hardware isn't his field. He glances at Thorn and nods to the notion of getting on with it. Now that everything's up in the air he's feeling the restlessness.

"No clue, Poet. I fly her, the Chief fixes her. She'll have a better idea than I do." Timon spares his ECO a grin that looks almost like a grimace as he tries to get up, hand slamming down rather loudly on a nearby box as he does. "Lots to do is the understatement of the century, Thorn. I'll go check in with Nikos; see what he's got to say. You wanna start mocking up that wireless, I've got the Mark-Niner schems in my flight manual." Which he tosses toward the pair of them before he stumps over to wake the Master Sergeant — an unenviable task.

The manual is snatched out of the air by Thorn's nimble fingers. He acknowledges the pilot's orders with a nod. "We'll get on it. If Nikos can spare a couple Marines t' go with us t' the Raptor, I'm sure we'd feel better." He then turns to Roubani. "If you can scrounge up a handcomp, Ensign, give me those data drives while we're there and I'll see what I can do with them." Time to put those computer science degrees to work, he thinks to himself as he begins flipping through the flight manual, looking for the relevant pages on the com drone.

Roubani stands back up despite having just sat down, heading over towards Thorn. Might as well see if one can be useful for a little, if only as a five-foot-ten bobble-head paperweight. Just don't ask him to wear a hula skirt. "Soon as we can get back to the bird I'll make that first priority," he tells Thorn, with a firm nod. Then it's down to work.

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