NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.
Hello again, reader. It's been a bit of an absence, I know, from my uploads. However, I can't seem to get the story of my friend Mason out of my mind. What I submit now, for your approval, is his story – before he even set foot in the CIC of the Aria. I'm not quite sure where we're going just yet, but I hope to provide, as always, with an enjoyable and fun ride for you, reader. As always, I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing.
1.
"Whiskey. Double. Neat."
The young man smirked at the bartender through the hazy air - lit only by the stray bulb and the artificial warmth of neon. Music boomed from somewhere in the corner. The sharp smack of billiard balls against each other was followed by roars of approval and anguish. Laughter floated to the ceiling with the slowly rising cigar smoke.
"Whatever," the bartender, a grizzled old man with scarred hands said as he generously poured the drink.
The young man threw a way-too-much tip in the old man's direction, mostly to get him to go away. He turned, the roughly hewn edge of the bar pressing into his gun belt that rested around his hips. He scanned the crowd, the cocky smirk still splashed across his face as he slowly sipped his drink.
Colonial Fleet regalia was strewn across the walls - pictures of young men and women in green flight suits, smiling and laughing. Any one of the bar's patrons could have swapped places with the photographed people. The crowd was a sea of dark blue uniforms and green flight suits. Typical for one of the only bars on Picon. Most civilians had given up the luxury of drinking for some time. But thirsty Fleet member's cubits were still as good as any others. So the bars stayed open. Business was typically good, considering the cavalier attitude of living for the day embraced by most of the fighting men and women.
"You're not nearly drunk enough," slurred another young man who had trouble keeping his hazel eyes in focus. He kept a death grip on his glass before him, smiling widely.
"I don't think anyone can keep up with you," he replied, his deeply blue eyes smiling back.
"For frak's sake, you're officially a Viper jock now!" said his friend, jabbing a finger at his left chest - right on the shining new pair of Viper wings. "We graduated today! Isn't that cause enough?"
"Of course," the young man said, running a hand through his messy dark brown hair - cropped close on the sides with a little more length on the top - the most he could get away with under regulations. He raised his glass, bumping it roughly against his friend's, and drained it. "To graduating."
"To graduating!" the fellow pilot grinned. He withdrew a fistful of cubits, narrowing his eyes, looking for the bartender. "Hey! Enoch! We're on bingo over here!"
"Shut the frak up and wait your turn!" the grizzled old Enoch roared.
"You shut the frak up!" the intoxicated pilot roared back, slamming his hand on the bar before exploding in a fit of riotous laughter.
Enoch limped over and poured two more generous drinks. He sized them up with a cautious eye, "Y'know, I can't believe they're actually gonna let you two jock Vipers."
"Please, Enoch," the young pilot said, toasting the bartender. "We're the best that's ever been."
"That's what they all say," rumbled the bartender, shaking his head.
"From what I hear, he may be right," said a voice to the pilot's left. A very seductive, soft voice.
Both men turned their heads quickly. The first man raised an eyebrow as his eyes widened. His drunken friend dropped his jaw.
"Mason!" he hissed into the blue eyed pilot's ear. Mason simply placed a palm over his friend's face, forcing him backward without a second thought. He lost his balance on the bar stool and fell cleanly off of it - causing a great cheer to go up from the crowded bar.
"I'm okay!" he said, standing up and dusting off his flight suit. More cheers followed as someone forced a drink into his hand.
The pilot named Mason wasn't concerned. He leaned an elbow on the bar and leaned in closer to the woman. A splash of blonde hair stopped just short of the dark blue shoulders of her uniform. She looked at him intently with pale blue eyes and a smile.
"And you are?" Mason asked.
"Thirsty," she smiled, looking him up and down with no attempt to hide it. "Buy me a drink?"
"Um," the young pilot hesitated. "Yeah! Uh...Enoch!"
"Stop your carrying on," Enoch growled, refilling the woman's glass before retreating off to a darkened corner behind the bar and lighting a cigarette.
"I still didn't get your name," Mason had to yell over the music.
"But I got yours," the corner of her mouth curved upward into a smile. "You're apparently the famous Scott Mason."
"Well," the famous Scott Mason replied, shrugging emphatically. "I wouldn't say famous..."
"Right," she said, downing her drink and grabbing his gun belt, pulling him toward her. She curled a finger around the upper zipper of his flight suit, toying with it playfully. "You wanna get out of here?"
"You have no idea," Mason whispered, staring into her eyes as the whiskey slowly warmed his veins.
She laughed softly, leaning in and gently tugging on the lobe of his ear with her lips.
"Look at this man work!" bellowed his friend from a short distance away, pointing. "I know him! I know this man!"
"Emory, shut the frak up!" Mason smiled as he yelled back at Emory. The woman grabbed his arm and quickly began making for the side exit.
"I hate the frakking air you breathe you frak!" Emory laughed and raised his glass with the rest of the cheering crowd as they watched the young pilot being whisked away out of the bar.
She slammed him against the side of the old brick building, the pouring rain instantly soaking them both. She crashed her mouth into his - hard. Mason barely had time to think before she forced his mouth open and slipped her tongue in. He then decided thinking wasn't necessary as he assisted her out of the regulation Colonial Fleet uniform jacket - something he was familiar in taking off.
The rain instantly soaked the black-over-gray shirts she wore underneath - making them cling to her curving figure. Mason ran his hands over this figure as she unzipped the top of his flight suit. He took over control, quickly flipping their places and forcing her against the wall, kissing her with a vehemence that could only be described as lust.
She moaned as his mouth travelled down her neck, gently sucking and tasting her skin. She ran her hands under the hem of his shirt, felling his skin underneath.
Mason smiled as his hands came to rest behind her hips, gipping her tightly...
"Beverly?!"
Her eyes snapped open. She quickly pushed Mason away from her.
"Beverly, what the frak?" a hulking Fleet Marine yelled, walking quickly toward Mason. "Who the frak is this?"
"David, hang on -"
"What the frak's your story, fly boy?" the Marine named David grabbed Mason's shoulder and shoved him backwards.
"Listen, I think this is kind of a misunderstanding," Mason said, holding up his hands, trying not to laugh.
"Oh you think this is real frakking funny, you frakking flap piece of shit!" this David character screamed, his breath reeking of alcohol.
"No, no-"
"David! Shut up! Let's go!" the soaking wet blonde, apparently named Beverly, yelled.
"You shut the frak up you bitch!" the Marine snarled, backhanding the blonde with enough force to send her tumbling.
Mason's smirk disappeared. He stepped forward, grabbing the Marine's wrist in an iron grip, "Now was that really necessary?"
"Hey D! There a problem out here?" yelled another Marine. Who was followed by another. And another. And another.
"Oh, shit," Mason whispered, looking at the four additional Marines who had stepped out into the rain.
"Yeah, oh shit," Marine David smiled menacingly. "Not so tough now, are we?"
"Hey! Frak-head!"
The Marine turned his head just in time to be struck violently by a rubbish bin lid by Emory. He swayed on the spot momentarily before crumpling to the ground.
Mason sighed, "Gods damn it, Garrett..."
"I'm gonna frakking kill you!" one of the other Marines bellowed as he sprinted towards the two pilots, winding up a haymaker.
Mason ducked the wild punch - his reaction time impeccable, even after drinking. He jumped into the air, swinging a knee into the Marine's gut. His wind left him in a wheeze.
Emory spun about, launching the rubbish bin lid like a disk, striking another Marine in the forehead, launching his feet out from under him.
"Ha!" Emory cackled.
The remaining two Marines weren't entertained. One loosed a devastating punch aimed for Emory's nose. Emory ducked, Mason didn't.
Mason took the man's fist to the jaw, reeling away. The world spun around him.
"Hey!" Emory screamed, jabbing the Marine in the throat.
Patrons streamed out of the bar at the commotion. Instantly, pilots were rushing to the aid of their own, as were Marines. Rubbish bins, bottles, and fists flew through the air as an all-out brawl ensued.
Mason had landed squarely on his backside, sitting up in a puddle. He spat blood out of his mouth as he tried to collect himself. Shaking off the dizziness, he sized up the brawl before him.
"Oh frak," he sighed, trying to pick out Emory. He did so in time to see his friend take a devastating blow from the same Marine he had clocked with the lid of the bin. "Oh frak, oh frak, oh frak."
Mason dove into the fray, grabbing the startled Marine's collar and letting fly with a series of punishing rights. He discarded the soldier and grabbed the staggering Emory - who was letting a string of profanity loose that would have given a twenty-year fleet veteran pause. He placed his friend's arm around his shoulders and began half carrying, half dragging him away.
"Holy frakking mother of Athena, Garrett," Mason gasped.
"I had 'im," Emory mumbled.
"Yeah, sure you did," Mason muttered. Sirens pierced the sounds of the fight and thunderstorm overhead.
"Fleet Police! Hands in the air!"
"Fraaaaaak," Mason sighed.
"What happened?" Emory asked, delirious.
"So, Junior Lieutenant Mason and Junior Lieutenant Emory, please, tell me that I am dreaming. Please tell me that I'm simply having a nightmare. This bad dream begins when I arrive in the morning - and before I've even had coffee, mind you - I am informed that two of my pilots incited a riot outside The Bent Bird last night -"
"Sir, to be fair-" Emory began.
"Please shut the frak up, Garrett, while you still possess the ability to make the choice," a calm-sounding Major Adrian Nelson said. The man's mastery of passive-aggressive was astounding. He took a deep breath before continuing, "And these pilots, if you can believe it, were dropped off in my office by the Fleet Police not just moments ago. Doesn't that sound like a bad dream, gentlemen? Or am I just being a frakking crybaby about all of this?"
Mason bit his lips together momentarily, standing at a very uneasy at-ease, "No, sir. You are certainly not being a crybaby, sir. And it sounds like a terrible dream, sir."
Nelson nodded, apparently deep in thought, "Yes. Yes it does. Lieutenant Emory, do you believe that it's possible that this dream is somehow reality?"
"Sir, I don't believe that I'm in any position to render an opinion on the subject," Emory replied.
"Humor me," Nelson growled. It wasn't a request.
Emory shifted his weight onto the heels momentarily, casting a quick sideways glance at Mason, "Sir, I believe it's possible."
"Strange. I thought so, too," the commander pondered. "Now, Lieutenant Mason, could you speculate as to why such a thing were to have occurred? If it even did occur at all, of course."
Mason, having accepted the inevitability of his impending death, cleared his throat, "Well, um, sir, perhaps these two pilots you are currently dreaming of were caught completely off guard and simply defending themselves, sir."
"It's possible, yes," Nelson continued to nod. "And maybe even plausible. Until someone tells me that a certain pilot tossed a rubbish bin lid, like some manner of sporting disk, mind you, at the head of a fellow Colonial Fleet member. Then the whole thing seems to go out the airlock, doesn't it?"
"Sir, if I really can just explain-" Emory stabbed again.
"Gods above, Emory, you really don't know when to quit, do you?" Nelson snapped out of his passive-aggressive state, his face astounded.
"No, sir, it would appear that I do not," Emory relented, looking at the floor.
"Gentlemen, we are at war, in case you haven't heard. Also, if you haven't heard, it really isn't going that hot for us right now," Nelson continued, his voice deadpan. "And while beating the frak out of Marines used to be a fun pastime for Viper jocks - it is something we can no longer afford to do. Frakkin' son of Zeus, guys, you graduated yesterday! You don't even have callsigns yet! And you have to push it like this?"
"Sir, it's my fault," Mason said, looking at a spot somewhere above Nelson's head. "I should've known better."
"It's not a matter of who's girlfriend you were trying to frak, Mason," Nelson rumbled. "It's the fact that you both engaged when you should've called it a night. You're not kids fresh out of boot anymore. You're Viper pilots. About to get your asses neck-deep in the shit. This cannot happen again. If it does, you're gonna be flying frakkin civvie airliners faster than you can unzip your suit. That will be all."
"Sir," both Mason and Emory drew themselves to attention, saluted, and made rapid egress from the room.
"Well, that could've gone worse," Emory said, shrugging.
Mason cracked up slightly, his jaw throbbing. "Yeah. Definitely."
"Frak, Scott," his friend sighed. "You don't think they'll…"
"No," he replied, falling in step with Emory as they stepped outside into the bright sunlight. He understood that Emory was inquiring as to whether or not their careers were in jeopardy. Mason knew better. It would take more than just a bar fight to ground two pilots.
"I didn't think so," Emory muttered, sliding his sunglasses on as Mason did the same. "I just wish we could get going into the shit, y'know?"
Mason nodded, understanding, "I know. It's about damn time."
The young men strode a while longer back to the junior officer's dorms. Mason strode inside, followed closely by Emory.
The applause that greeted them in the lobby was, mildly speaking, thunderous. Most of the graduating class was gathered in the common area, some of them displaying minor wounds from the previous evening. However, all persons gathered were grinning, slapping Mason and Emory on their backs, singing their praises.
"We really frakked up those marines, Scott!"
"Garrett! Did you actually throw a trash can lid?"
"Unbelievable," Mason muttered, smiling.
"You're frakkin' right I did!" Emory shouted to a general roar of approval. Instantly he was ensnared into a verbal replay of the scrap. Mason folded his arms, smiling and listening to the somewhat polished version of events.
Mason's thoughts drifted away among the laughter of the young officers gathered. Maybe it was the slight hangover – or maybe he was a little concussed. He couldn't decide which.
"-and then Scott absolutely leveled this guy-"
More laughter followed. Mason held up a hand in modesty.
"No, seriously, it was beyond excellent, then I…"
Mason sighed, looking away. His eyes followed the floor – landing on a pair of polished, black boots. He quickly looked upward, his eyes then landing on the shining diamond Captain's insignia of the person leaning on a support column near him.
"Attention on deck!" Mason bellowed, his baritone voice ringing off the walls. Pilots scrambled to their feet, hastily drawing themselves up to attention.
The captain stood for a moment, a grizzled looking man of perhaps forty. His hair was a dark shade of gray, and his brown eyes appeared humorless.
"Well," he said in a harsh voice barely above a whisper. "If I were a Cylon, you'd all be dead, that much is certain."
Mason blinked, trying not to look directly at the senior officer. It seemed to make no difference to this captain who had seemingly materialized on the spot.
"I need to see Abrams, Bailey, Bakker, Emory, Larson, Mason, Osbourne, and Simms," the man said, reading the names off of the stack of corresponding envelopes he held in his hands. "The rest of you take a frakking walk."
Eight bodies remained rooted to the spot as the rest of the pilots stampeded out of the common area – some making for the exits, others for the stairs or the elevator. Mason was motionless, silently contemplating career options for dishonorably discharged fleet members.
"Right, you eight, bring it in," whispered the old captain. "And for the love of Zeus, stand at ease."
The eight remaining young men uneasily formed a semi-circle around him. Nobody had the gall to speak.
"I'm Captain Lazarus Hellewell, callsign 'Hellfire'," he began. "I'm the interim CAG of the Cathedral. Now I'm not really sure how smart all of you fraks are, given both your facial expressions and the shit you pulled at the bar last night, but I think you're all with it enough to have figured out that you're all going to be coming with me today."
Mason blinked, looking now at the elder man.
"These are your orders, but don't bother to open them. They all say the same thing – be on the outbound shuttle for the Scorpion yards at thirteen thirty. I'll meet you all on the shuttle and give you more information then. Questions?"
"Sir, Junior Lieutenant A-" Bakker extended a hand to Hellewell. The captain held up his own in protest.
"I don't wanna know your names because you'll most likely be dead in a few weeks anyway," he said, his eyes cold. "Now, any questions on the orders?"
The group was silent.
"Well," Hellfire raised his eyebrows and gestured with the stack of envelopes. "Get your shit."
"What the frak?" Emory yelled at the ceiling, hastily stuffing duty tank tops into his ruck.
Mason shrugged, his mouth full of a stale-flavored protein bar from the morning's ration. He set his bulging ruck sack on his rickety former dorm bed and picked up the orders, re-reading them for the fourth time.
"I mean, you'd think they'd give us a day's warning or something," Emory continued. "Where the frak is my toothbrush…"
"Y'know, you were just saying how you wanted to get into the shit," Mason raised an eyebrow at his roommate.
"Yeah, but so quick?" he said, stuffing his toothbrush hastily into his shaving kit. "Typically it's at least two weeks, even at war, before nuggets are shipped out to their first duty station."
"Extraordinary times, my friend," Mason nodded, tearing another chunk of protein bar off with his teeth. "One day we're feet dry cozy on Picon, the next we're halfway across the damned galaxy, fighting for our lives. How 'bout that?"
"Absolutely nuts," Emory sighed, surveying his side of the comparably spacious dorm. "I think I've got everything."
Mason nodded, thankful that he himself didn't possess much. He enjoyed living out of a duffel bag most of the time. It was a certain freedom to be able to pick up and move freely, taking everything you own with you. Perhaps it was why he enjoyed the spartan life of the military.
"Well, you ready?" Emory said, turning to him and smirking.
"As I'll ever be," Mason smirked in return, hoisting his ruck to his shoulder. He had hoped that being moved around over the past four years in the military would have prepared him better for this moment. However, the feeling in the pit of his stomach reminded him of the feeling he had leaving Tauron just weeks after he had come of age. Anticipation built, and his smirk turned into a sly smile as he and Emory caught a ride on the tailgate of a passing pickup.
The young men hopped off with unusual grace as the pickup cruised slowly past the airfield terminal – a place they both knew well.
"Shame we can't stop in for a quick farewell toast," Emory looked longingly in the direction of the terminal's rather small but well-equipped watering hole.
"Gods, I know," Mason sighed, flashing his identification card to the marine posted by the doors to the tarmac.
The marine casually glanced at both men's cards and scowled respectively at them.
"Right," Emory raised an eyebrow over the frame of his sunglasses.
A blast of warm air and the whine of turbofan engines greeted them as they strode toward the small, streamlined military shuttle. Hellfire was waiting for them at the back loading ramp, his gray hair waving in the breeze. He wasn't smiling. Nor did it appear that he ever had in his life.
"About time, nuggets," he remarked as they strode up the ramp, each saluting.
Mason stowed his bag under one of the remaining jump seats, and began the familiar process of strapping himself down to the aircraft.
"Now that dipshit one and dipshit two have decided to join us," Hellfire snarled from the back.
"Frak," Emory whispered.
"Next stop will be your new home for the duration of your deployment. Get intimately familiar with the faces around you, as they will be your only friends on board. Respect is not given, but earned aboard the Cathedral, gentlemen. Keep that in mind. Welcome to the fleet."
Hellewell cackled, sitting down in the rearmost jump seat and strapping himself in.
Mason glanced to his right as he felt Emory's shoulder press into his as he rummaged in his pockets.
"Gonna be a long hop," Emory smirked at him before placing a pinch of rolled fumella leaves under his lip. He snapped the tin closed with a flourish and stuffed it back into one of the many pockets on his flight suit.
"That's ok," Mason replied, leaning his head back on the wall of the shuttle and smiling as the cabin lights dimmed. "Pretty soon we'll be the ones flying."
"Frakkin' right," Emory smiled as the familiar sensation of rapid acceleration pressed them back into their seats.
A small voice in Mason's head, and indeed every pilot's head, whispered "cycle" as the shuttle lifted effortlessly from the ground. Mason could tell the guy driving had spent a few hours in this particular craft. The pilot slammed the throttle forward, opening up the tyllium engines with a frame-shaking roar as the shuttle tore through the fabric of the placid Picon sky.