A Warm Welcome - Part 2
A Warm Welcome - Part 2
Summary: Cont'd, with a twist.
Date: 56 ACH
Related Logs: A Warm Welcome - Part 1, Just a Snipe
Players:
Snatch..Quill..

Take them? What? No, no, nonono. This isn't good. "We aren't here for a fight!" he insists again, backing up a step. His tone is an interesting mix of panic, resignation to impending doom, and lost patience. "Listen to the PO, alright? These aren't repairs you can do yourselves, and if they don't get done then this ship gets left behind." He's still not reaching for his weapon, either he's forgotten about it or he believes tool-kits are worth protecting and should not be abandoned or surrendered in situations like this. Possibly both. "Think about it. If the military security finds you beating us into the floor they'll frack you up the ass again and no one wants that. We just want to do our work and get the frack off your ship."

The toolkits are indeed the first things the small group of angry civvies go for, one of them stepping close behind Quill, grabbing at the inside of the snipe's elbow with one hand and trying to wrest the case out of that hand with the other. Another makes a grab for Mopsus Doe's case, trying to grab it with both hands and simply yank it away from her with a strange look of entitlement on his face. When she yanks back harder than expected and holds the case in front of her, hugged in both arms and leaning away from him with an irritated look, he simply takes the sidearm she'd left exposed, instead, drawing it and after a brief moment of looking it over manages the safety off.

But soon from a side corridor, evidently having been alerted to the coup by a less ornery civvie, a fully armed security patrol arrives. "You're going to want to listen to him," Heroic Security Guard says. "Put your weapons on the floor and put your hands behind your heads."

The mob can take their lives, but they can never take their toolkits! Or freedom. But mostly, toolkits. There are priorities when you're in Engineering. Quill attempts to wrest free from his assailant, and the combined conflicting forces are not kind to his elbow or wrist. "Frack!" It hurts! "Godsdammit you don't even know how to solder, leave off!" The guy does succeed in grabbing away the tools, however. Alas. Quill suffers a moment of panic when he sees Snatch's gun taken from her, but his noble attempt to place himself between weapon and PO is proved blissfully unnecessary by the arrival of the HSG. "There's been a misunderstanding."

Mopsus Doe does the only reasonable thing she can think of, and holds the toolcase up in front of her like a shield. Those things are hard. Bulletproof, even, by necessity: you don't want your tools getting mauled in the middle of a firefight. The man who'd just come into possession of one of Quill's toolkits, meanwhile, gets a hard look in his eye at Quill's accusation, and takes the opportunity of his moment of pain to suckerpunch him in the kidney region with a snarled, "Frak you!" before he's jumped and pinned to the floor by one of HSG's cohorts. "The rest of you, weapons down, now!" HSG barks, and the only two armed members of the group comply while the rest of them put their hands behind their heads. "Better," he continues. "Congratulations, boys, you've just earned yourself a cut to the front of the line." He turns to reinforcements who are coming up behind while his first group takes the men into custody, "Get them on the first raptor."

Military people are fairly tough. They're rough-and-tumble sorts who went through extensively miserable basic training, who have boxing tournaments for fun and who hold their own in bar fights. Quill, alas, is not really a military person. He is an engineering professor, a lifestyle renowned for its failure to acquaint its followers with what it feels like to get punched in the kidney. Thus the Ensign's assailant can enjoy the gratifying sight of him leaning against the wall, eyes closed in pain with a gasped, "Frack!" The tone is slightly disbelieving, as though Quill can't believe tht just happened. He's still hanging on to one of his two toolkits though, godsdammit.

Snatch uncringes from behind her toolkit when her sidearm stops being pointed at her and gets laid on the ground. The fact that the rifle also makes its way to the floor doesn't hurt her mood, either, and she relaxes with a breathily expressed, "Eeee-casser. Han, Doc! Y'ns still at laahf o'er thar?" ('By Castor. Hey, Doc! You still alive over there?') She goes to get his toolkit, first, and brings it to him as if it might make him feel better. She's a little shaken, but not showing it, too much. When the mob is led off to the hangar deck, she narrows her eyes, "Rampers? Whar they gone to?" ('Raptors? Where are they going?') HSG seems to understand, because he nods in that severe heroic style, and replies, "We're clearing out this deck, finding new places for most of these people, giving you all some room to work in peace. I'll have a guard detail posted in the engine room until we secure all civilians out of the area."

"Thanks," Quill wheezes heartfelt gratitude at HSG, "Appreciated." Wheeze. "Don't be too hard on them, alright? My petty vindictive side would be alright with it, but they really have been through hell already." The Ensign does perk up a bit as Snatch offers him back the precious mechanical implements, and he offers her a wry smile in return. "You know that's the first time anyone's hit me? Hurts like frack. I'll live. You alright?"

HSG makes no promises about being hard or not on the culprits. Pointing guns at people isn't nothing, after all. But he nods gruffly in acknowledgement of Quill's words. Snatch sets her own case down, finally, next to the one she'd set by Quill, and she gives him a quirk of a grin, "M'a gone go on 'head an' reckon you grew up the nonly chaald," she tells him, voice subtly gentle as she makes a little joke. She can't imagine having grown up without being pummelled daily by her big brother, anyhow. Not to mention not pummelling him in return. "Ah'm faahn, Doc. We'ns gone git you back t' Sickbay or cin y'ns walk it off?"

Subtitles: I'm going to go ahead and figure you're an only child. I'm fine, Doc. Are we going to get you back to Sickbay, or can you walk it off?

"Well, it's the first time anyone not my sister has hit me," Quill grins at Snatch's assertion. "A stranger. Siblings don't count." He winces at moving his elbow, and then at moving in general, but does pick up his gear and starts heading for their work area. "I'll walk it off, Snatch. We've got work to do, and I'm too stupidly proud to admit I'd rather not, in front of someone who's tough as nails."

Snatch looks fairly well proud of her once-pupil. "Don' manner none the reas'nin', Doc. Than jus' makes yin tough-as, yer'n own sailf," she affirms with a nod of her head, accepting her sidearm and holstering it again, though she eyes that big rifle NF dropped as the guard's holding onto that, as well. Now that's a gun, her glance seems to say, but she resists the urge to try to barter for it, since she figures that civvie will likely need it, later. She gets her gear set and follows along after Quill, hustling until she catches up with him and then squints at the wreckage left of Engineering. "Ou-ais, we'ns got our'n work raaht cut out, don' we?" she asks, rhetorically, but then smiles, turning to the Doc. "Hay Doc. Once't we'ns git thins here canott up an' midst-airs, you wan' git hitched?" she asks him, as easily as if she were asking him if he wanted anything from the mess while she went down there.

Subtitles: The reason doesn't matter, Doc. It makes you pretty tough, yourself. Oh, man, we've got our work cut out for us, don't we? Hey, Doc, once we get this ship up and going again, do you want to get married?

"Tough as? Sure." Quill grins. "Tough as pudding, maybe. Or a particularly fierce blanket." He coaxes one of the remaining consoles into life, patiently sifting through its myriad of missing/broken component errors to see what's actually still here and working, if anything. "I think we'll need to patch up the sublight engines before we get to the FTL, they're hanging in there but not for long, and if the fuel system decides it wants to frack up, there'll be hell to pay for everything else. Why don't you start on —" Quill pauses. He can't have heard that correctly. "…Wait, what?"

Snatch peers over his shoulder at the diagrams and numbers and flashing lights, and when he pauses she uses her pinky to point out a spot, "Thar. M'a git that fuel laahn unnder c'ntrol an' paahp everthin' down through thar lo'er turbaahn… she'ns gummed up anyhow so's—" she pauses in her own suggeston and looks up, "S'awright," she assures him, "Than thar turbaahn's gummed up proper, we'ns heave them fuels through thar an' we'ns cin feed 'er with the mann-yel throttle 'fin we'ns need 'er an' not risk blow'n out thar sublaaht," she explains.

Subtitles: There. I'll get the fuel line under control and pipe everything down through that lower turbine. It's gummed up anyhow, so— … It's alright, that turbine's all gummed up, if we run the fuel through there we can feed the fuel through with a manual throttle if we need to— without risking blowing out sublight.

"Yeah, I… the engineering I understand," Quill says, rubbing his abused elbow and eyeing his companion oddly. "And you're right, we'll start there first. What were you saying about hitching?" Maybe it was just a misinterpretation born of Snatch-speak and Colonial translation thereof. That must be it, and Quill seems a little relieved. "You mean …hitching the parts together? That we're working on? Fuel lines, turbines, et cetera?"

"Han, ne pas," Snatch replies negatively, licking at the inside of a back tooth for a second, "Hitched als… maaarh'd," she dredges up the other word from the depths of her vocab. Yeah, 'hitched' works better. "Man an' waahf an' all 'at thar," she adds, in case she's still being unclear.

Subtitles: Oh. No. Married, like… Married. Man and wife and all that.

Those wacky NCOs. "Funny, Snatch," Quill replies with a wry smile, as he starts opening up the precious tool cases in preparation for work to begin. "I thought you were serious for a second, there. You want to start on the fuel lines, or the turbine?"

Snatch wrinkles her nose up in distaste, "All y'ns has t' say's 'ne pas,'" she points out, "Hain't no call t' make fun," she tells him, "M'a git at them fuel laahns firs'," she replies, taking up her case and clomping down to the main deck. She doesn't have to unhatch anything… everything's all unhatched already. But she balances like a coyote on the beams between the open panels until she finds the spot she's looking for and starts climbing down into the guts.

Subtitles: All you have to say is no, you don't need to make fun. I'll take the fuel lines first.

Shit, she wasn't kidding. Quill closes his eyes for a moment, then follows over to the hatch where Snatch disappeared, looking down to where she's climbing around. "Look, Snatch… Mopsus Doe. I'm not trying to make fun of you, I just didn't realize you were serious. I thought /you/ were making fun of /me/." A pause lingers, and he sighs. "You'll find someone. Someone good, you deserve that," Quill assures, though there's regret and a touch of bitterness in his tone as he explains, "I'm… not a good man, and I wouldn't inflict that on you or anyone else. I've wrecked too many lives already." Ne pas it is. Quill's footsteps retreat towards the gunked up turbine, away from Snatch. "Let me know when you're done with the fuel lines."

Snatch peeks up, goggles on, peering at him curiously as he claims not to be a good man. But there's work to be done, so she doesn't take the time to contradict him. He doesn't care to get wed, and that's all she wanted to know. "Ou-ais, Doc, m'a shain't git t' bin so long on't," she grins at him, and heads back down to re-route the fuel, trusty wrench in hand.

Subtitles: O.K. Doc, it won't take long.

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