Darkest Part of the Night
BSG Xxx BSG Xxx BSG Xxx BSG
"Where are you taking me?" The croaked question was trite, but she needed to buy some time to figure out what her next step was going to be – literally. The walls kept shifting and the floor was moving as she looked down and put one foot in front of the other. The fact that she was naked and tacky to the touch wasn't lost to her either.
"You've been given permission to get cleaned up. You've been too unstable to move for several hours but Simon said that now was an okay time get you rinsed off and that there would be a garment waiting for you when we got you back to your room."
"You aren't going to win, you know. I'm not going to let you." Syllables slurred together but her words were distinguishable because she spoke them so slowly.
Sharon knew that there was no way that Starbuck could be seeing clearly, much less being in any shape to form coherent thoughts. Nevertheless, the conviction behind her declaration challenged the betrayal she was sent to accomplish and had her thinking of another way to do what had to be done.
Pausing in the corridor, Sharon gave a measured, sidelong look at the bloodied and battered warrior.
"I'm counting on that, Starbuck."
Sharon felt her friend tremble with something akin to mirth. At least Starbuck was still on the board and in play.
That is, until the warrior-pilot became deadweight in her arms and Starbuck's head lolled away from Sharon's supportive shoulder.
"Come here." Staggering, her balance shaken by the unexpected load, Sharon glanced over her shoulder to one of the two Centurions trailing them. "Help her."
Stepping back as the metal soldier came forward, the corners of her mouth quirked. For just an instant reality shifted and Sharon was looking at two drunks – Helo and Starbuck – each trying to keep the other upright after being tossed out of a Picon bar as she walked unsteadily to the curb to hail a transport. That is, until her almond eyes darkened and the edges of her mouth became mournful. Those memories were ones that she inherited from Boomer; they weren't her own. What she could claim as her own was seeing, first hand, the strength that the blonde haired woman drew on to keep herself alive and her head 'in the game'. Even unconscious, Starbuck found a way to make the transition from being slumped in her arms to being cradled in the clanker's 'embrace' as difficult as possible.
The Starbuck that spiked Boomer's memories was loud, brash, talented, gifted and self-destructive. The Starbuck travelled back with Sharon from Caprica had the elements of being volatile, dangerous, suspicious, committed and damaged added to an already complex persona that would never consider allowing what was being done to her to take her on a Final Journey – mores the pity. Of all the potential scenarios that were reviewed with her, no one overlooked the possibility that Sharon could find Starbuck already dead. If Starbuck died as she was being made to fulfil her part in the Cylon Manifesto, Sharon's objective became that of simple sabotage and evacuation. The absence of jangling metals made her impending escape third on the list of 'Things to Do'. She would have to find them because right now the only thing on Starbuck's body was broken skin and a silver band on her left thumb that bisected the grossly swollen digit. Adama was specific when he stipulated that the only way he would believe the 'Starbuck died Before I Got There' scenario was if Sharon pooled the tags in the middle of his open palm.
The damage to Starbuck's – it was the only way she could look at the Viper pilot that had killed so many of her people and not superimpose any more memories she had of the woman and bunkmate – body was extensive enough that she didn't bother telling the metal soldier how best to carry the human. If Starbuck was going to live to kill another day, like Simon alluded, the least Sharon thought she could do was make the trip to the cleansing areas be as brief as possible.
Stretching her strides and listening to the whirring of mechanical legs and hips rising and clanking, matching her pace, she allowed her mind to wander over everything that had happened since she came on board the BaseStar.
Her hands had been in the Living Water; the Hybrid did make an initial connection to her but it was Fate's sense of timing – in the form of a harrowing anguish that swept the entire population of the BaseStar – that cut the interface to her silica pathways before her ulterior motives could be deciphered and brought to the attention of the others.
Picking herself up off the floor of the Command Centre, slowly climbing back into awareness and leaning heavily against the centre console, she was the last one to get to her feet. Waiting for the deck to stop swimming in and out of focus didn't mean she couldn't hear the discussion going on around her. Diagnostic protocols were called out, programme checks were run and direct interface with the Hybrid all confirmed what the other Models hypothesised as to what had happened to every Cylon on board. The fact that extremely amplified biomechanical feedback, stemming from an internal source, could manifest itself to such a destructive level instigated a fresh round of debate that she couldn't follow. What she did gather was that because the feedback hit her the hardest earned her a tentative parole – of sorts – by the other Models. Cradling her stomach as she straightened, it was the ridiculous notion of a 'mother's instinct' that made her think that her unborn daughter somehow intensified the emotional attack – as it pertained to her, not any other Cylon – that resonated throughout the BaseStar. One after another, her brothers and sisters agreed that she was still connected to the General Consciousness and therefore, capable of being monitored by The Hybrid. If anything were to become amiss, then the Living Machine of the BaseStar would make it known to the collective whole and she could be dealt with accordingly. Adding her own palm to the Consensus, Sharon nodded her head and logged her own vote: agreed.
The debate switched to the issue of the source of the 'attack' and those responsible. Seizing the moment, Sharon made her excuses and walked out of the Command Centre as the other voices deepened with the 'give and take' that was the hallmark of Cylon unity.
Walking down the corridors with two Centurions in her wake as 'guides', she deliberately branched out to an area of the ship that was separate from the more heavily trafficked corridors. She needed to think, to prepare herself for the next phase of her mission. Being caught with a look of consternation on her face would only arouse suspicions she had – temporarily – put aside. One thing that didn't surprise her was Three's calculating gaze; that model challenged the motivations of any Cylon that had extended contact with Humanity. The parting glance that shaded D'Anna's blue eyes as she left the Command Centre several hours ago was the reason why she had two Centurions flanking her shadow.
Ahead of her, at the top of the hallway, a male Model took the corner leaving her alone in the corridor, sans her escorts. Peering into the only room he could have come out of, she remembered watching Simon – as he prepped two bags of fluids, plasma and blood – and wondering why Simon would be administering medical aid to a fellow Cylon. Unless things had changed since she petitioned for asylum, it was standard procedure to terminate the Model and let the body die, knowing that very shortly it would be resurrected hale, healthy and whole. Unless the model Simon was tending to had something… contagious; that was enough to make her shudder.
Calling out from the doorframe – there were no doors on a BaseStar – she figured that if there was anything she needed to know, now was as good a time as any.
"Is that what affected everyone?" She kept her voice neutral. Appearances were everything at this stage in the game. The more she acted like she belonged where she was, then the chances of someone asking her why she was there decreased extensionally.
A quizzical expression merged with the concerned look on Simon's face as he turned to see who was interrupting his lab-time. Recognizing an Eight, his tone reflected his posture; a little unbalanced but in control of the situation. The thought that he was 'on the hunt' seemed appropriate. Like his science experiment had taken an unexpected turn that could change the direction of his research. A cold finger traced the groove of her spine. Of all the Models, she knew Simon was among the most capable when it came to finding out where humans could – physiologically – be the most useful in furthering the Cylon cause. He was the one who had developed the concept of 'Farming' and made the procedure a medical reality.
"Yes."
The fact that he kept his answer to one word was what let her walk into the room and cross to where he was standing, making notation on a chart. Bent over something, blocking whomever he was attending to from view, she watched as transparent sides of something pull apart and sink into the floor. An unpleasant, sweet-like smell hung in the air. It was similar to what she remembered vanilla smelling like, but with a slightly – sinister? – edge rounding out the aroma that became palatable where her nose met her throat.
Still standing in the middle of Sharon's line-of-sight, Simon nodded in understanding. The sound of her opening and closing her mouth, trying to clear the taste from where it collected behind her tonsils, drew his attention away from the notation he was making on his clipboard.
"The ventilation system is still compensating for the extended session. We've done this so many times that I must admit that I don't even notice it now." His expectant, patient gaze was something she didn't understand until she realized that he had been expecting – not her, specifically – but a Model Eight all the same. This Simon had never interacted with her before, and if she could play her part just right, he would have no reason to think otherwise. Attempting humour, he grinned, "What is that saying?"
"It's an acquired taste." Sharon answered automatically, letting Simon hear the phrase Humans coined while she spoke of the ugliness that the room harboured.
His back turned to her and she watched as he reached up to one of the cabinets mounted on the wall and pulled out a fresh syringe and a small glass bottle. Confusion tilted her head as he filled the needle and tapped out the air bubbles. Her eyes on him, she didn't notice what his body had been blocking until he collected all his materials and stepped up to the side of a body lying prone in an elongated, contoured, chair.
"It'll be roughly four more hours before you can relocate the subject to the holding facility." Inserting the needle into the line and pressing on the plunger with steady pressure, Simon added, "This coagulant will need some time to spread through out the vascular system. Just like before, if you see the subject start to seize or any drastic change occurs, page me." Done with the syringe, he lined up the bags of plasma and blood along side the pouch of rapidly draining electrolytes already hanging from a standee. Another length of intravenous line was measured out and his dark fingers cradled the crook of an elbow. Scowling at something as his voice was directed down towards the floor, it was a strain to hear what he said.
"…veins are collapsing again. It's getting harder and harder to bring her back to a cognitive status." Intently looking at a pale arm and smartly slapping it several times, he called over his shoulder, "Bring me the needle that is the next size down."
Getting a wad of gauze and the needle he asked for, Sharon put both in his out-stretched palm even as the mental image of a pair of small octagonal metal discs landing on top of necklace-grade chain mounded in the centre of a weathered upturned hand played out in her mind. Breaking her reverie, she traced the length of Simon' hand to where it joined with his arm. From his arm, her gaze wandered over to a set of bindings that was keeping someone – something – in place.
Unable to stop her reaction, the breath she sucked in over her teeth filled her lungs to overflowing. Having swabbed a patch of skin clean, he was wriggling the needle in Starbuck's arm in an attempt to get a second line flowing into the unconscious woman's body when Simon gave her a sidelong glance steeped in reassurance.
"Don't worry. She can't get at you as long as you keep her immobilized. Which, at this point in time, is best for everyone; she can't try to kill you and she'll live to kill another day." Simon explained. "That is a good thing for us."
Somewhere, Sharon knew that Simon used the word 'us' as a euphemism for the Cylon war machine. Somewhere, she filed his words away so that she could process their meanings later. But nowhere did she see Captain Kara Thrace. The body that was strapped down to a piece of equipment that she had never seen before was a husked copy of the vibrant woman who stood toe-to-toe with Lee Adama and didn't back down, the officer who had clocked Colonel Tigh and went to the brig with a swagger in her hips and a stogie clamped between her teeth, and the card-shark that held court at the Triad tables like she was the anointed Queen of Sheba.
Starbuck was pale, paler than she had ever seen her. Her hair, slicked back and pressed flat against her head, had grown out considerably since her capture. Her cheekbones were overly prominent, making her eyes seem sunken. Deep creases cut around her mouth and across her forehead, the vestiges left from transferring her pain to every corner of the BaseStar. Ropes of sinewy muscle stretching from her chest to her hands belied the hours of callisthenics Starbuck logged. Globules of thick, viscous – something like resurrection fluid – rolled along the planes of her body and snaked along the underside of the apparatus until their weight made the blobs fall to the floor. Beads of blood dripped off of her back and seeped out of puncture marks along her body. The fact that Starbuck was naked didn't even register in the wake of everything else that Sharon found herself cataloguing.
"She's alive?" Sharon formed the words in her head and they slipped past her lips before she could stop them. Suddenly, Adama's missive became a whole lot more complicated.
"Oh, yes – she's alive. Doing a 'hard disconnect', among other unforeseen complications, put her into respiratory distress. In addition to putting an air-tube down her throat, it took several attempts to re-stabilize her heartbeat." Satisfied, Simon peeled off his surgical gloves and pocketed them. His answer was detached; he took her question as concern for the Cylon cause, "My instructions stand. If you notice anything, have me paged at once."
Nodding silently, she didn't spare a glance at the human physiology expert as she methodically began straightening up the room. She did hear Simon give some last minute instructions from the access way.
"Keep the Centurions with you until she comes too, and then instruct them to wait outside in the corridor. The cameras overhead will document her reactions as she regains consciousness, but if you could mark down your own perceptions as well that would be very useful. Also, pull out the lines and then get her cleaned up. I've noticed that she is marginally less agitated around you," Simon referred to her Model rather than her identity, "than any other Model as her visual ability returns to her."
Great – cameras and being under the never-ceasing moving eyes of the Centurions at the same time. Not having a clear plan to begin with, whatever string of thoughts she had pieced together as to how she was going to carry out her mission were now moot.
Five hours into a four-hour vigil had Sharon's finger on the call-button because Starbuck was still unconscious when Simon predicted she would be transportable. It the sound of laboured, harsh, breathing that stopped her from paging the other Cylon. Relieved, she turned her attention to the control panel and took a guess as to what button would release Starbuck. Sighing with relief when the metal bindings disengaged, she walked back over to Simon's latest scientific fixation and prayed that the other Model's words weren't based on semantics. It took one look at the pilot, as lucidity fought with chaos for dominance, to know that Starbuck was between 'worlds'. Insight flared. As the drugs wore off, Starbuck's current reality overlapped with whatever 'reality' the Cylons put in her head. It was something Sharon could relate too; coming from one 'world' and made to live in another would mess with anyone's head. At least she had made a deliberate choice to do so. But not Starbuck – Starbuck had learned to live with a dual reality and make it one of her own.
Where did that thought come from? Sharon shook her head as her musings took an unpredictable turn and went back to seeing what she could do for warrior-pilot.
The small gauze pads she found worked well for cleaning up the sites where the intravenous lines were extracted but impractical for anything else. Stopping and starting around the pilot's wounds, Sharon grimaced at the way the top layers of muck were starting to harden and cake on Starbuck's skin. Cupping her fingers together, the edges of her hands were the only things she had to scrape the majority of the goop off of the other woman's body.
Not sure if she was speaking to Starbuck, Adama, on behalf of the Cylon race, to God, or what – Sharon whispered, "I'm sorry," as she repeatedly snapped her wrists to flick the mess off of her own hands that she sloughed off of Starbuck's body.
Maybe that was the reason why Sharon found herself half-guiding-half-supporting Starbuck down the corridors of the BaseStar. Maybe it was because she, Sharon, needed the touch of another warm body after being in The Cage since she arrived on Galactica. Maybe it was a call back to the programming that had initially been created more than forty years ago when the concept of a Cylon was first developed – that Cylons were created to make Life easier for Man. Or maybe, just maybe, it was what it was: one Being helping Another simply because it was the right thing to do.
Letting the Centurion that wasn't carrying Starbuck bring up the rear, she let her mind open up to the ebbs and flows of information streaming in the air slide through her and let that be her guide to the cleansing facilities. Following through with her mission was the litmus test Adama was going to use as a way to gauge where her loyalties now fell; how much of her was 'human' and how much of her was 'machine'. The bitter irony that she had to be more machine than human to prove her worthiness to the Colonials was right in front of her – literally. A naked, battered, Starbuck being manhandled by a 'clanker' as she was shifted from being cradled between its arms to being hung by her armpits as her feet touched the ground and her head tipping back was the proof that her logic was sound. Karl was right when he summed up the intentions behind Colonial Fleet conditioning because now she could fully appreciate the lengths that he went through to keep Starbuck from pumping a half a dozen rounds into her body outside that museum in Delphi. Now, she understood why so many officers muttered 'it's the mission that matters' like a soul-saving mantra.
When she returned to Galactica – delivering Starbuck's dog tags and allowing Gaeta to connect her to the playback device that would put Starbuck's assassination into living colour – she would have her freedom. Her daughter will be born outside The Cage. She would be given rank and privilege that came with being a Colonial Officer. All for killing a woman who means more to the Fleet and to the three men who will have the most impact on the rest of her life than any other individual in the universe.
Simon's words of advice – that Starbuck was less agitated around an Eight – echoed in her mind and helped her come to a decision as to best take care of an 'enemy' she once called 'friend'. Reaching for the hidden closures on her stylish skirt-set, she let the clothes fall to the floor, kicked off her shoes and put everything on a high shelf well outside of the splash zone.
Regulating the temperature until the water that came out of the spigot matched the air around them; Sharon beckoned the silent soldier forward. Knowing it would be easier for her to clean the other woman up with the Centurion supporting her dead-weight was the only way she could run the washcloth over Starbuck's body and not retch at the revulsion that pricked at her sense of 'right' and 'wrong'. The cruelty that came from the loneliness of being in The Cage day in and day out would never escalate to cruelty that her fellow Cylons had heaped up this woman on Galactica.
Breathing through her mouth, Sharon had to rinse out the cloth after making only on pass to wipe away the layers of blood, sweat and mucus. Still seeing blood on it, she ran it under the water again. Twice more she tried to clean it; until it dawned on her that the cloth was stained – not dirty. More Cylon efficiency; the towels she pulled from the cubby-hole had been used before for the very same reasons.
Scrubbing where she could, dabbing at other places and avoiding the lash marks that criss-crossed Starbuck's shoulders and back like a road map of Caprica City, she motioned to the Centurion to lower the pilot so that Starbuck could be balanced on her knees. It was the only way Sharon could get at the taller woman's hair and keep her out of the direct spray of the water at the same time. It was also the only way Sharon could blame the droplets of water that floated in the air for making her eyes water and claim ignorance to the tears that filled the lower half of her eyes to the point of overflowing.
"Hotter." A low voice carried over the sound of the running water. "Make it hotter."
Starbuck was rousing.
Reaching for the regulator, Sharon turned the dial to the left.
"Hot-ter." The one word was broken up into its two syllables for emphasis even as Starbuck tipped her soap-sudded hair further back into the streaming water. "Turn me."
"It will hurt more if I do that, Starbuck."
"Doesn't matter; hotter," cracked lips barely moved as the words slurred together.
Rolling her lips together with the same breath she used to close and open her eyes, Sharon understood.
Pooling more cleanser into her palm, she threaded her fingers through Starbuck's hair and shifted her until the pressurized water fell across the tops of her shoulders. She watched as the other woman tilted her head back and re-rinsed her hair. It wasn't about clean hair – it was about her back. The only way to get rid of the goop that clung to her stripes as much as it filled in the narrow strips of unmarked skin in between was to use the soap from her hair and let it flow down and over her backside. Hotter water made for more suds as much as it helped melt the stuff off of her.
"Can you stand?" Sharon meant to keep her voice clipped and her words perfunctory, yet she felt her eyes soften as the question rolled off her tongue and onto Kara tentative grip on consciousness.
It was Kara that was in front of her.
During the process of freeing the stuff that had caked the roots of the pilot's hair and watching the other woman time and again tip her head back into the now scalding water and tremble at the impact of streams of water hitting every laceration between the nape of her neck and her coccyx, a transition had taken place. She was taking care of the other woman as only a woman could. No self-consciousness bloomed when Sharon dropped to her own knees and positioned her own naked body to shield Kara's from prying eyes. Lifting, stretching, letting her arms rise and fall as needed, she ran the cloth over the most private aspects of Kara's body, scars that existed before she came on board the BaseStar and did it all in a nurturing way that only can exist between two women when the kinship of womanhood is between them. Being so close to Kara allowed Sharon see that the pain that summoned Kara from her blessed unconsciousness was giving way to utter physical, emotional and mental exhaustion.
Reduced to nodding weakly, Sharon had to look away from the warrior-woman swaying on her knees as Kara's warrior-hardened body betrayed her will to defy.
The pressure of a palm against her lower thigh made Sharon turn back and tilt her chin downward to meet Starbuck's pain-hazy, upturned eyes.
"Even if you live, you're gonna die."
Crouching down, sliding her arm underneath Kara's – Starbuck was back and had shuttered Kara away for her own good – she used her breath to push them both upright rather than comment on Starbuck's cryptic promise.
That is, until Sharon saw Kara's eyes roll up into her head for the second time in an hour. Catching the other woman as she pitched forward, Sharon's eyes flitted between the two Centurions and the expanse of corridor stretching beyond where they stood. The sensation of an hour glass being overturned, the sands of time running out as a clock against the amount of time she had to complete Adama's mission had every thought that crossed her mind since that meeting in the Commander's quarters competing with the revelations of the past several hours. Each was pressing her for an answer she didn't have, a decision her couldn't make.
Ignoring the Centurions, she accepted the burden of Kara's slumped body for a second time, and for a second time, spoke to the other woman when Starbuck couldn't answer.
"Tell me something I don't know, Starbuck. Tell me why you keep this going."
The wounds, old and new; the towels in the shower area being stained and ready to be reused; Simon intrigued over something that had happened before – putting Starbuck in that chair time and again for the same God-driven reasons. Sharon knew she had enough information on how the human body worked to know that Kara should have been dead by now. It had to be by sheer force of will that she had lived through this latest round of 'Cylon versus Starbuck'. If Kara were to just die from what was being done to her, the conflict in her – Sharon's – mind and heart wouldn't need a resolution. But this was… the pilot was acting like Starbuck did when she was on a mission.
Mission?
That one word had Sharon stopping in mid-stride and propping Kara's chin to bring their two faces level with one another.
"Starbuck!" Sharon had to get her attention. Hissing louder than before but no so that the Centurions would pick up on what she was saying, she tried again. "STARBUCK!"
Kara's mouth twitched and her eyes almost opened; it was all the response Sharon needed.
"What is your mission, Starbuck?" Sharon asked, her eyes scanning Kara's face for vital information her words might not contain.
"Can't."
One word – that was all Sharon heard and it wasn't enough. Reaching for one of Kara's hands, she rested her thumb over the site where just an hour ago a needle pumped chemicals into her body.
"Can't, what – Starbuck? Can't say? Won't say? What is it? You need to tell me, Kara." Sharon no sooner said the other woman's name as she pressed the knuckle of her thumb into Thrace's overly abused vein.
An angry flash of defiance snapped pair of eyelids open but that didn't mean that Kara was actually looking at her, Sharon. She was looking at the Centurions walking behind them.
"Can't… die."
With those two words, Starbuck slipped into unconsciousness for the last time. Letting go of her hand, no amount of playing on any of her wounds was going to give Sharon any more answers.
No one was immortal, and Sharon knew enough about Kara to know that the pilot lived with life and death on an every day basis.
Changing her train of thought, Sharon made herself switch from existentialism to verbage.
If Kara said she couldn't die, it was because she wasn't going to let herself die. And if she wasn't going to let herself die; that meant that she had to live for some reason. And, whatever that reason was, it was powerful enough to allow herself to endure whatever Simon was subjecting her to. That she made sure Starbuck lived to be subjected to whatever Simon was doing to her. If they were focused on her, then they would not be focused on anyone else. If they weren't focused on anyone else, because she made sure she was alive for the next round of machinations. That meant that someone else was safe from their attentions. She was protecting someone!
Wait a minute! Sharon's mind whirred with insight into her own thoughts. Them?
But Simon was alone – wasn't he? The image of a Model at the top of the corridor came into focus.
That was the connection. That was why she said she couldn't die. That Model, Simon, the Cylon Cause, Starbuck and who ever she was protecting were all interconnected on a cosmic, pre-destined level.
Her head swimming for a second time, all she had to do was sift through the myriad of possible permutations and she would have her answer; she would have Starbuck's secret. Sharon didn't need deep thoughts to figure out whom Kara was protecting: Lee, Adama, and Helo. The people she loved the most.
She would need her deep thoughts to figure out how the five points: the Mystery Model, Cylon Cause, Simon, Starbuck and those she loved came together to make the here and now the current reality for all of them.
BSG Xxx BSG Xxx BSG Xxx BSG
By the Gods, she was going to kill him.
Not that she couldn't handle it; she had the Alert Fighters organized, launched and the deck prepped for 'Repair and Recovery' without anyone questioning one word that came out of her mouth.
No – she was going to kill him because her sixty-five inches and one-hundred-thirteen pounds of feminine heft was getting her nowhere with the seventy-six inches of irate Karl Agathon when Kat decided to open her big mouth.
Her small hands stretched between Kat and Helo, she whipped her head to where she saw Jammer standing with his mouth wide open. Pitching her voice an octave below where the Raptor ECO and Viper pilot were verbally flaying each other, she hollered out, "Jammer! Get the CAG! And for frak's sake, get me a frakking tranquilliser gun!"
Okay, so maybe the last item was more wishful thinking than anything else, but frakking Tyrol was going to get a frakking earful when he frakking decided to show his frakking face on the frakking hanger deck for making her having to frakking deal with this when he was off doing some frakking Special Request that came down from Command.
"Kat – I never thought I would see a woman who has more hair on her teeth than she has on her chest!" Helo snarled over Cally's head even as Racetrack tried to pull him away from the abrasive Viper pilot. "Your hairy ass is now your frakking face!"
"What's that Helo? I'm having a hard time understanding you. Oh yeah, that's right. You only speak 'Toaster' these days – don't you?" Kat snapped back. "How's it feel sticking your – "
"Go ahead, Kat. Better say it now before Cottle wires your jaw back into place." Racetrack tightened her grip on Helo's arm and gave Katraine a few pearls of wisdom as she watched Helo shift his balance to the balls of his feet and his fists rise to chest level. "And you're slurping your way through your day instead of you sucking your day away on your knees."
"You think you can take me, Raptor-girl?" Kat turned her nose up at Racetrack and angled her chin back at Helo. "News bulletin, Toaster-frakker; brains win over brawn any day. But then again, your mamma splashed about in the shallow end of the gene pool!" Kat sneered as she yanked the buckles on her flight suit free and hauled her arms out of the constrictive sleeves.
"What about those who were a mistake that should've dripped down their mamma's thighs, Katraine?" Karl's insinuation bounced off every surface in the hanger bay.
"I am not going to say it again! Back down – all of you," Cally projected her voice but no one seemed to hear her.
"Well – at least my father frakked a real woman and not some traitorous, battery operated, glorified blow-up doll." Incensed and looking to reclaim some lost ground had Cally turning herself so that she was chest-to-chest with Kat as the pilot lunged forward. "That – THING – should have been blown out an airlock months ago. She stole the frakking Blackbird!"
Looking to put some distance between her and the Viper pilot, Cally rested one hand on Kat's shoulder and pushed the older woman back a couple of steps, "Kat – go wait by your bird."
"Wow, Kat – I didn't know stim-junkies could…"
Coming into the hanger bay at a pace just short of a trot with a group of five pilots he pulled from the bunkroom, Lee couldn't hear the tail end of the insult Karl fired back because Constanza's Viper, minus one wing, was being taxied into the hanger drowned out Agathon's words. Hot Dog's plane would also explain why Kat and Helo were still on the deck wearing their flight suits. SAR duties included making a final, detailed list of damages to planes, as they saw them, for the Chief of the Deck as well as making a preliminary report on any and all injuries and casualties that might have happened under their watch. It was an unspoken agreement that SAR were also the last ones to leave the deck, to make sure everyone who made it home made it off the deck.
He did, though, see Kat pull back her arm, swivel from her hips and completely misjudge where her fist landed – which was in the middle of Cally's face.
Picking up speed, Lee couldn't prevent Cally from bouncing off of Helo and falling to the deck any more than he could prevent the stream of blood that flowed from the Specialist's nose or the way anyone who wasn't invested in the Kat versus Helo Exhibition Match was now picking sides and getting actively involved.
The look of regret that flitted across Kat's face as Cally went down wasn't enough of an apology for Karl. Yeah, some little voice told him that it was a mistake – Kat never meant to hit Cally – that she meant to hit him for what he said. And, that pricked at his guilt. He should have just walked away and never put Cally in a position – especially when she had command of the deck in Tyrol's absence – to have to stop a fight between him and the Viper pilot. But everything was just so… wrong. Broken birds, too much work spread between too few people, staying strong for Lee, Kara – where ever the frak she was – and the rest of the squad, not to mention him and the situation with Sharon had Helo strung pretty tightly. To be perfectly honest, everyone was feeling the strain; even Tigh showed up at a Triad game last week and brought a bottle to share with the table. And now, what happened today… Transferring all his frustrations to his inner Starbuck, he latched onto and made Kat's reaction a rallying cry to teach the little bitch a lesson in 'manners'. Helo had never hit a woman, but right now Kat was a walking, talking asshole that needed to be knocked into next week.
Stepping forward, he never got so far as to put his foot on the ground when Coda and Rat Trap each hooked one of his elbows and hauled him backwards.
Three feet way – closer than his arm length – another pair of pilots were restraining Kat. But not before the grip one of them had slipped and Kat's balled fist flew in his direction. Granted, it never landed – she was too far away for her arm to reach him – but still! It was all the reason he needed to break free of the hold Rat Trap had on him. It also told him just how everyone was going to be playing this – like a squad of referees favouring the home team over the visiting Pyramid squad.
So. Be. Frakking. It.
Crouching down next to Cally with Monkey Boy and moving her out of the 'immediate combat zone' together, Lee saw Kat wriggle an arm free and try to take a swing at Karl. Anger swelled inside him. This – tension – had been building for weeks and he knew it was only going to be a matter of time before it all came to a head. He just didn't know it would fall on Cally's head now that the time had come. Knowing Karl as he did, he wasn't surprised when the larger crooked his arm and jabbed Coda, still attached to his left arm, with the point of his elbow as he twisted and wrenched his other arm free.
It took one Agathon-sized stride to reach Katraine, grab her by her upper arms and lift her bodily off the floor. Lee had listened to more than one person rant about someone or another to the point where he already knew the insults Helo would have fired at Kat without having to actually hear them due to sheer repetition. Which was why he held the belief that Karl wouldn't actually be stupid enough to hit Kat was the reason why he kept his protective perch next to Cally.
Too bad Hot Dog didn't know Karl well enough to share the same faith.
Going for the element of surprise, Hot Dog tugged at his flight suit even as he charged into the snarl too late to stop Karl from tossing Kat backwards and onto the two pilots that stood behind her. Launching himself off of someone's trailing arm, Hot Dog lived up to his call sign as he made fully-body contact with Helo.
Above the din, beyond the cat-calls and behind the rows of down Vipers and Raptors, a long-ago lecture, courtesy of someone who didn't consider herself a big enough dipstick for the job, about being 'friends' and being The CAG" surfaced from Lee's memory.
Satisfied that Cally was safe enough for the moment, Lee put on his Captain Adama visage. Regardless as to whether she was there or not, Kara was still the Big Dog of this crew and he was the CAG and the Alpha Male of this pack. It was about time everyone remembered that, including himself.
"Attention. On. Deck!" Every word was a sentence. His authority wrapped around everyone and everything within the sound of his voice. "NOW!"
All around him, Specialists, pilots and E.C.O.'s responded to Colonial conditioning and the fundamental respect that was afforded to someone of his rank and title.
Sweeping the assemblage with a hard eye, Tyrol watched as Captain Adama wrung the collective asses of everyone standing on his flight deck. A pool of dark hair, inert on the floor, capping a set bright orange coveralls was the reason why his hand was on the release valve of the spigot that fed the primary water hoses. If Captain Adama had let fight go on any longer, keeping Cally from medical attention, he had every intention of opening up the nozzle and spraying everyone down with enough water and pressure capable of drowning a flaming freighter.
Listening to Agathon, Katraine and Constanza be singled out and made to stay behind after the CAG dismissed everyone else, Galen wasn't surprised to see Jammer skirt the four officers and take up a spot to his left.
"Is she okay?" Tyrol asked.
"Cally? Yeah – I think so. Kat took a swing at Helo but missed. She'll have a lovely pair of black eyes for a while." Jammer commented.
Taking a good look at the Chief, Jammer couldn't help but notice how… pulled within himself Tyrol seemed to be. Barely noticing the way Kat bounced up the access stairs and headed towards the bunkrooms, he really considered what the other man could be thinking about, where his head was.
The Chief only had eyes for the CAG and Helo, who were helping Cally to her feet; each cradling an elbow as she found her balance even as the CAG pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and let her begin to wipe away the blood that had flowed from her nose.
"You okay, Chief?" Jammer asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Why?"
"Because you look like you just killed your best friend." Jammer levelled an honestly concerned look at the man he had come to know and respect.
"Not mine, Jammer."
Those three words were all he was going to say.
Still focused on the threesome making their way toward the Ready Room access to the main corridor – ostensibly to head to Sickbay – it was a long moment before Tyrol finally looked at Jammer for the first time. His eyes gave away the naked truth of the situation; the reason why Cally had control of the deck during a Cylon skirmish and how a plane as important as the Blackbird could be 'stolen' in the first place without being blown out of the sky, and be launched without anyone 'knowing' about it.
Tyrol had facilitated the need for a funeral for the one person the CAG, Helo and Cally all shared a deep connection to: Starbuck.