>>5265046>>5265051>>5265073>>5265122>>5265224>>5265652>>5265672>>5265834>>5265837>>5266267>>At the time of writing...>Day 1 - Holt>Day 2 - Gully>Day 2 - Gully[b:lit]ACT THREE – THE RETURN[/b:lit]
On an ordinary day, the Calypso would’ve been running a 7-5 watch, or a one-in-two watch. An overall comfortable, less harried timekeeping schedule that allowed the crew to get more sleep, and eat more regularly. Even if you and Gully didn’t quite fit in due to your positions as PUEXO pilots, you still contributed your fair share, and got more than a good rest when your heads hit the pillow.
But after the attack, Elishani’s gone and set the ship to a war footing. He’s since adopted the six-hour shift, dividing the crew up into three sections to ensure constant, round-the-clock work to keep the little armada afloat. With a fifth of the crew either dead or wounded, the remaining able-bodied members have to pull the remaining weight to keep the ship(s) in working order.
People gripe, of course, but it doesn’t really go anywhere. They’re all too willing to accept the adjustment in order to get back to Babylonia safely. Morale isn’t as high as it had been setting out, but it’s since plateaued, caught between triumph at repelling the attack, and sadness at the losses the ship took.
There hadn’t been a department that lost someone. Or a group of friends that emerged unscathed. From the death of a coworker or a brutal maiming at the hands of the Bloodied.
For you, nothing’s really changed. You’ve still got enough leeway to pick and choose where you want to work. Both the captain and the XO otherwise know that you’d be bored out of your skull if you just sat on your ass. Justified as it might be given your actions in saving the ship.
Although you’re starting to get mildly annoyed at the stares, whispers and pointed fingers that follow you and dog your footsteps wherever you go.
>>Day One>Beneath the aft deck, with Chief Holt…“Mothaphuckers,” the chief curses past the screwdriver in her mouth. Her hands are deep in the guts of a fire-control system, working through a patchwork mess of wires. In a small pile at her feet, a collection of frayed, slagged or otherwise shot-up components lay waiting to be replaced. “Pardon my phrench.”
You grunt, both in acknowledgement of Holt and in physical effort as you, Carter, Hasazi and Darius strain to unjam one of the bulkheads. The third in as many hours, but all of you are already sweating like pigs on market day.
“One more try, on the count of three,” mutters Carter.
Darius frowns. “Counting down or up?”
“And if down, what about [i:lit]cero[/i:lit]?” adds Hasazi. “Sometimes we begin on [i:lit]cero[/i:lit], sometimes not.”
The specialist looks like he’s about to kill someone, but he stops just short of braining his fellow deckhands. Carter turns to you, then says, “If we can’t get it open, then we’ll have to cut our way through.”
(cont.)
