Running With The Big Dogs
Running with the big dogs
Summary: Fenix and Castor come to an understanding after some blood.
Date: PHD023
Related Logs: None. Shortly after the ambush on the Kharon.

The dramatics have passed, but as far as Fenix is concerned, the work has just begun. The bloodied pilots have been bustled off to the sickbay, and the battered ships have been left in her care. Smoking engines, shattered panels, and tattered wings. It's enough to leave any mechanic looking a bit ill, and with her crew run ragged with the attack itself, the aftermath proves a bit much for some of them. Some of the younger hands are huddled in the corners, some comforting, others being comforted, while others move from ship to ship, attempting to patch the more obvious wounds. Fenix heads the assessment, still dressed in the off-duties she was wearing when the attacks took place. The clothing has since been smeared with grease and blood — pilots, no doubt — and her hair has long since been pulled free of its usual tail. The mane frames a pale face, and makes the already-young Chief look that much younger. "You, you… and you, see what you can do with her." A tip of her chin toward one of the Vipers. "Carlson, Jermaine, Hendricks, you're over there." The orders continue, though an observant eye would notice that she leaves the huddled hands alone. Only those who have volunteered to work are being assigned. For now.

Castor steps onto the deck having just finished his debriefing. He takes a look at all of the broken ships that are stretched out over the deck. He then begins to make his way over to the Chief though he recieves some looks from the deck gang, looks that say, 'You broke our ships'. The Aquarian keeps walking and stays silent as he is now out of his flight suit and in his off duty clothes. He finally makes his way to Fenix and says in a slightly amazed tone, "Wow, they frakked us up pretty damn badly." He says looking at the carnage, "Which is why I was wondering if I could help you?" He then offers in sincere tones.

It's true — the last person any deckhand wants to see right about now is a pilot… and Fenix is no exception. The woman's eyes flicker upward at the question, and there's a moment of visible self-control as she keeps herself civil. The Chief was as shaken as anyone by the attack… but unlike the rest of the crew, who've begun recovery, Fenix is only finding herself deeper in chaos. "Two of the birds are grounded until further notice. A third took serious damage, and two more need help. And that's just what I've seen so far." It's not exactly what he asked, but it seems to be what the Chief's willing to give. A damage report. "As if that weren't enough, the frakking sevens are still down…" Her jaw tightening with frustration, the woman sweeps an almost hostile look toward the malfunctioning vipers.
Like a ghost in a flightsuit, Willem breezes by at a brisk pace, almost jogging. He's making his way towards the lower decks.

Castor looks at the Chief and frowns slightly, "Yeah, we are well fraked and far from home." His tones are distant for a moment as if his mind was somplace else before he says, "Which is why I came to help you Chief. I might not be able to fix these birds but I can hand people things and help move stuff around." He then says, "I know the pilots aren't popular right now with the deck gang but we did what we could to keep those flying tincans off of the Kharon." As he says this his voice remains calm, though, a little distant again. He finally looks back at Fenix, "Besides Chief I promised I'd come and help out so I could create some good will and I keep my promises." His voice is determined and he attempts to sound slightly comforting. "Hey, if nothing else I'll give the deck gang something to laugh at, 'Hey look at the pilot who doesn't know a saw from a wrench!'" He adds on a childish, "Ha Ha!" at the end to sound funny.

Fenix doesn't look terribly impressed. Fenix doesn't look much of anything, really. She's staring up at the too-friendly pilot, expression somewhere between apathetic and shell-shocked, and then shaking her head. "Drop the reconciliation act, Tinman. One frakking pilot doesn't make a movement, and Gods help me, I don't want to hear it right now. If you want to help, I'm not gonna stop you. But don't be actin' like you got a white flag up your ass. We're all gonna live or die here, whether we're pilot or mechanic." She's jerking her head toward the Viper just in front of the pair — gesturing him to follow, if he will — before stepping forward on her own.
ooc Rebound or Tinman?

Castor starts to follow Fenix, "It isn't an act Chief then again it isn't a movement, yet, but it will be." He says as he looks at the damaged Viper. He jokes, "Though I'll tone down the spoken optimism if you want." He takes a moment to really look at the Viper, he is familiar with her systems and he knows loosely how she is put together however the exact damage is a bit beyond him. He does slide his hand up to touch the machine as he walks with Fenix. His eyes take on a slightly different look, a loving look, as he looks at the Viper. He then says quietly to the Viper, "Thank you for holding together." His voice is appreciate with a strong sense of admiration for the machine. "She is a beautiful machine you know, even broken up like this. Her core design is nearly flawless, even in her age she is still beautiful." He then lets go of the Viper and turns to see what he can to help.

"I don't like optimism when I'm frakkin' /cheerful/," Fenix all but growls the reminder, the last word bitten off as her arms are raised to catch hold of a near-hidden handhold on the bird's side. Using the grip to hoist herself upward — all but climbing the side of the machine — and then straddling the base of the wing as she leans sideways to pry open a panel. Choking on a curse as smoke pours from the newly-opened cavity, and then dropping an irritated look toward Castor. "Hand me… that," frowning slightly as she dumbs down her language, and instead points at one of the half dozen toolbelts the woman's draped around the area. "Please." That one hurt.

Tinman picks up the toolbelt quickly and offers it to the Chief with a look on his face the suddenly remembers the way he admires a Viper and the way the Chief might admire are probably different, "Sorry." He says in honest tones, "I'll cut back on the optimism." He says sincerely as he looks up at the smoke. As he watches the smoke roll from the bird he says, "Whoa, Frak…" He then cuts himself off before he says something to further irritate Fenix. However he does watch what the Chief is doing and he also waits for other orders, despite the tense mood in the room, the pilot isn't leaving.

He's persistent — she'll give him that. Most would've given up by now, and judging by the occasional glance she's sweeping him — as curious as it is irritated — Fenix is trying to figure out why Castor hasn't. She's insulted him, hasn't she? Snapped? Been generally unpleasant? So why the hell is he still here? "Thanks," muttered, as she leans down enough to grab the toolbelt from him. The movement puts her left arm on a rather macabre display, scars trailing from wrist to inner elbow. Not that he's given much of a view, as the tools are drawn quickly back, and one of the wrenches pulled free. Her other hand is used to fan away the lingering smoke, and then the woman's half-disappearing into the Viper's insides. "Why are you really here?" It's half-muffled by her position, and when the woman re-emerges for another tool, the look she sweeps him is as hostile as it is curious. "No more shit about making peace. You frakking jocks got a bet going?" It was amusing, at first… the pilots hanging about, making small talk. Now she's just paranoid. "

Castor notices the scars on the Chief's hand but he doesn't say anything about it; he'll save that question for later. As he watches the Chief disappear he hears the woman's question and he takes a moment to think about it rubbing his chin though hovering near by in case he is asked to hand the Chief something else. "Bet? What would we bet on? Trust me there is no bet." He honestly does seem a bit confused and amused at the idea of some sort of bet. He is still the new pilot on the block in a squad of new pilots on the block. "As for the truth? Well, I really do want to make peace, though to be fair, lets just say we all have coping mechanisms. Sometimes I drink more than I should and other times I have to stay fresh in case I have to fly. So, by helping other people on the ship I get this feeling that I'm doing something and that we aren't as powerless as we think. It helps me feel like I can do something that I have control over something." His voice is sincere and if Fenix can see him the pilots body posture and facial expressions clearly show that the pilot believes this. "Plus, I've learned it is a good idea to keep an active mind, it helps me from thinking about my brother."

What would they bet on? Judging by the look the words earn him, Fenix could give him any number of suggestions. And if her half-kindled anger is any indication, she's seen more than one of them played out. But perhaps fortunately, she doesn't elaborate. Instead, she's listening as he explains himself. It's a green admission, still a bit too bushy-tailed for the Chief's taste, but it's better than, 'I come in peace'. "We /are/ powerless," she counters, voice still a bit muffled. "We ain't a frakkin' /fraction/ of the human race, and for all we know, we're the only ones left. We've just been waitin' for the clean up crew an' hopin' they don't remember we're here. Today they remembered." She's fishing out a severed wire, wincing as the thing comes completely free, and then tossing the ruined piece to the ground below. Then, as if she hadn't just spoken doom and destruction, "What happened to your brother?"

Castor watches the Chief work, "Well, like I said if I feel powerless, I feel the need to help people. We have to find those moments of control even if we are the blind leading the blind." He then takes a breath and stops himself from saying something utterly optimistic. Instead his tone and body posture become different almost vulnerable and uncomfortable. An expression creeps over his face as he says, "My brother…" then there is a pregnant pause, "died. He was a flight instructor at the Athena flight school. My parents died years before that in a freak accident. So, I was suddenly left alone." He rubs his forhead, "My brother was one of the best pilots there was and he was an even better teacher. Frak, he was the goldenboy of the fleet. Everyone expected me to be like him." He then says. "So, after he died I had to pick up his work and become the best officer I could be."

"Well, you're failing so far," Fenix announces. "Last I checked, officers ain't make friends with NCOs." She's still trying to drive him off, it would seem. As for his tragedy? It earns little more than a nod from the woman. Funny how one man's life-shattering event can be just another moment for someone else. She does manage a, "Sorry about your brother," before diving into the ship again. Coming out with another handful of wires and a set of cursing that goes a bit beyond colorful. "Carlson! Gonna need some serious overhaul here." The barked command sets one of the older deckhands into movement, gathering the needed equipment and tools. Then, back to Castor, "Aren't there pilots in the sickbay? 'm sure they could use some… optimism." Wincing slightly at the last word. It would seem the woman grows less… amiable under stress.

Castor looks hurt by the 'failing' part, acctually he looks cut to the bone hurt, however a weak, "I know…" comes out of his mouth. However, he suddenly draws into himself and the moment of pain mysteriously disappears and this strange calm comes over the man, as if there was a total lack of emotion, this is why he is called Tinman. He then continues waiting to help as he says, "Well, Chief, it is the end of the world and so things are different now. Why can't officers and NCO's make friends? The pool is small around here and I'd rather not see this develop into some sort of fuedal system." He then offers, "As for the pilots, they are all under medical care. I can't get near them for now."

"It's the frakking military, Castor," .. so she knows his real name. "It already /is/ a fuedal system. But fine. We can talk. We can be friends. If you play your cards right, I may even /smile/ at you…" That's feat enough. "But only if you promise to stop actin' like a Gods damned puppy dog askin' to get kicked. I bite, you bite back. I kick, you kick harder. You can't do that, then you got no place tryin' to be friends with me. I ain't a frakking sadist." And apparently she's incapable of being 'nice'. The beckoned hand comes close enough to hand up the ordered equipment, and stays only long enough to give Castor a dubious look, followed by a not-so-subtle shake of his head. Don't try it. "Saw that, bastard," growled from above, even as she smirks at the man's retreating back.

Castor looks at Fenix, "Well, Mersades, if that is the way you want it, than that is what I'll do." He then adds, "I reckon I can be one of the big dogs." He then shifts his weight and takes on a strong stance, "We have a saying on Aquaria, you can't run with the big dogs if you pee like a puppy." So, in an effort to be stronger in his approach with talking to Fenix, "So, what happened to your hand Chief, I mean why the scars?

Mersades? The woman's back tightens so quickly that she bangs the back of her head on the edge of the Viper. Triggering a stream of curses, and adding an extra touch of fire to her eyes as she turns to glare down at him. "Who th' hell do —…" pausing, mouth still half-open, before a bark of laughter escapes her. He just did exactly what she asked, didn't he? "Gods…" hissed, as she shakes her head. One hand raised to touch at the back of her head — a bit of blood coming away — and her 'brows knitting a bit as she half-winces and half-scowls at him. "Touche. But if you know what's good for you, keep that one shelved. No one calls me that. Chief, Fenix, bitch, Mistress of frakkin' Deck… but not that."

Castor nods, "Got it, I'll save it for when you really piss me off then." He then reaches down and gets a clean rag, "For the blood." He says, "So, are you going to stand their and bleed or are you gonna tell me about your hand while I get a look at that new head wound, oh mistress of the frakkin' deck?" The pilot is attempting to play ball and he would appear to know how to play off socially, it isn't book sort of social learning either, the way he suddenly changed comes from something else like life on the streets. Though only someone observant would catch this and maybe the Chief is observant enough.

Castor has time to get a near by first aid kit open as he begins to look at the Chief's head. He then begins gently working trying to see how bad the wound is and wether or not this is a visit to see the doctor. He gently begins using a clean cloth to soak up some of the blood to get a better view. "Well, this isn't to bad but you might need a stitch or two but the good news is you aren't going to die." He then says, "I can stop the bleeding I think." He then takes says, "Press down on this cloth." He then moves to get something else out of the kit, "The scars on your arms, looks like a tatoo removal and the inner arms look something else, like intentional cutting." The pilot is observant, he is paid to be, he is a pilot after all. He then moves back to the Chief's head and says, "Alright, let me see…" and he continues to try to stop the bleeding.

"If you already know what it is, why you askin'?" Fenix muses, though for the first time tonight, she doesn't sound likes she's on the offensive. She takes the rag from him when prompted, though she does lift it a time to two to see just how much its bleeding. Relinquishing it as he returns, and letting her arms rest on bent knees, hands dangling between. "We all got history," she finally offers. "Mine was better erased."

Castor looks at Fenix, "Yeah, well, it is just interesting, your accent says your Caprican, the scars say otherwise." Though he doesn't push, "Fair enough, I don't really like talking about my past either." He then continues working on the woman's head. "We need to get someone to give you stitches and the regs won't let me do it myself…" he looks at one of the deck hands, Huston a blonde caprican woman with a big cheerful smile and yet a mouth on her that would make even the Marines blush, "Specialist Huston, call for med support under my authority, the Chief took a zinger and needs some stitches. The Chief can't be bothered to stop working now and so we need someone down here. Tell them it's minor." He then says loud enough for only Fenix to hear, "You took a zinger from a parked Viper that is quite a feat only nuggets make that kind of mistake. You better be careful or they'll give you wings and tell you to fly. Even worse, they'll make a soulless officer out of you."

The woman's mouth is opening in protest as Castor starts ordering around one of the deckhands, but impressively enough, the pilot manages to talk over her. And to top it off, he's managing to insult her in the process. The man is learning. Enough so that Fenix is silent for a moment, jaw set with discomfort, but 'brows knitting in thought. Finally, turning just enough to glance at the man, she's offering, "Not all Capricans got a pretty life. Every colony's got its outcasts." Admitting to her heritage, however sideways. Giving him something — even a small thing — in return for his effort. "I got most of the ink when I was drunk. The rest…" a one-shouldered shrug, causing one of the scars to ripple with her movement. "The scars are better."

Castor looks at Fenix, the blood flow is begging to slow down, "Really, never got to Caprica myself, on Aquaria it was all land of the rich and beautiful. Special emphasis on the rich. Then again it was also described as being all concrete and steel. Though I've heard it was a beautiful planet." He then looks down at the scars and the arms, "We all do dumb things when we're drunk, especially when we're drunk." He then looks at the scars, "I've heard about that…it is supposed to be an old primal thing. Either way it screams hardcore and extreme." He puts a little more preasure on the wound and moments later one of the med support teams show up, fearing Fenix's wrath they begin to quietly work and quickly.

Laughter. For whatever reason, Castor's last words trigger laughter. Or they did, until that medic starts poking around her scalp. By then she's cursing again, and scowling at the pilot for bringing this down on her. The hostility fades quickly, however, as something they rub on numbs much of the pain. The source of her laughter is revealed as she holds out one of her scarred arms, flexing a fist and turning the forearm in a slow rotation. Studying the scars that triggered the conversation. "This… frak, it was primal enough, but it had nothin' to do with bein' extreme. Kinda the opposite, actually." Ah, cryptic. "Frak, it's done, go away." Snapped at the unfortunate medic, even as a grease-stained hand is raised to bat the man away.

Castor grins slightly at all of the cursing and is clearly amused, however, it is in a typical subtle Aquarian sense. "The opposite, huh?" He takes a moment to consider what that means, "Well, it suits foul mouthed deck Cheif's and probably scares folks into minding their p's and q's around you." He then takes a moment to add, "Well, everyone but the pilots seeing as all of them are insane, well, except for me of course." He then looks at the medic, "Thank you, dismissed." With that med support quickly moved in a power walk out of the hangar bay. One of them says to the other, "She's worse than the pilots."

"I ain't foulmouthed," Fenix argues, though there's no heart behind the argument. She's just being difficult for the sake of being difficult. "I just speak… deck." That's offered with something of a smirk, more self-directed than anything. "Frak you too," is muttered at the medic's back. See, she's speaking deck again. "People got their theories about the scars. Most of them are a lot more interesting than the truth, and do more for my reputation. I figure it's best to leave it that way." In other words? He's gotten all he's going to get, at least for now. A hand is raised to touch once more at the now-stitched wound, and her jaw tightens a bit as she fingers the new stitches. Lovely. "I'd thank you, but it's your frakkin' fault…" muttered, as she glances back to Castor.

Castor smirks back, "I wasn't the one who got zinged by a Viper when I said her name. So, the frakkin' fault is with you or the Viper." He then watches as the med support quickly darts out of the door far out of reach. "Well, you spooked them well enough." He then looks at the stitches, "They did good work at least, it could have been worse, I mean you could have hit the Viper harder."

She doesn't argue. She probably couldn't if she tried. Instead, she's pulling to her feet and looking up at the pilot. Standing a good ten inches below the pilot, but holding herself with a posture that suggests she's unbothered by the fact. Little dog syndrome. "I gotta get back to work. We need these birds in the air." A pause, tongue working briefly at her teeth, then, "'ll talk to you later." It's more than she offers any of the other pilots, save maybe Rebound. He's been hanging around as well. Hell, more than she offers most of deck hands.

Castor nods his head, "Fair enough Chief, just try not to hit anymore Vipers with your head." He then smirks slightly saying, "Anyway, see you around." He says and then he turns and begins to walk off. His walk is confident, direct, and hardly the puppydog walk he came in with. He does take one last look at all the broken metal and then poof like the wind, he is out of sight as he goes through the hangar door.

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