On Loan
On Loan
Summary: Rhea loans out two of her snipes to the deck crew to help patch together raptors and vipers after the attacks.
Date: 32 ACH
Related Logs: None

Snatch hops up from a step to slide down the last length of railing to the deck on her ass, landing with a grimace and a clenched-jawed 'Ecasser!' before bending over, holding her leg. Okay, leg's not quite healed enough for fanciful tricks. She scoots off into the deck head to take a pee before getting back to work.

Chaos! That's what happens when the fleet gets their collective asses handed to them by the cylons. There's more than just the deck hands afoot today… Snatch for example. And someone calling her name, when she re-emerges from the head. It turns out to be Doc/Quill, who's getting in other people's way as he attempts to head over. "Snatch! PO! Are you alright?"

Snatch seems more or less okay now, swatting her hands on a grungy oil-stained towel to dry them, counteracting the act of having washed them in the first place. "Ou-ais, Doc," she replies. "Jus' had an off'cer frommar PAS t'shew them way on down t'Sickbay. Cap'm loan y'ns out to'n deck, a-swell?" she heads back toward the Raptor she'd been working on before, favoring her right leg, now, just enough to be noticable.

Quill eyes Snatch for a moment as though mistrustful of her assertion that she is actually alive and intact, then nods. "Yeah, it's all hands on deck, so to speak. I'm not actually authorized to take initiative on anything as far as I know, but I'm here to be ordered around by you or anyone else who's keen on it." His gaze flickers over the ships and personnel, "I guess the Fleet got chewed up pretty bad today, eh?"

Snatch mhms in general agreement, "Than's whar's lookin' als. A haint heard no nummers, yet," she adds. "Rahnt now m'a re-wahr thins here canott's belly, sunch als they'ns got tored up. Whan'cher star'n clearnin' from her'n fore? Git min som clean ends an' make inventory on whan needs replaced. Rememmer we ain't got infant wahr'ns stort up, so'n make -shore- in's well an' frakked a'fore y'ns snip."

Quill quirks a bit of a smile at the familiar speech he barely understands, fetching a wire stripper out of the nearest toolkit. "Snatch," the Recruit addresses his partner in re-wiring, "Thank you for not being in the wrong place at the wrong time today." Thank you for not asploding into a thousand tiny bits in the ether of space. Well, it's weird, but it's gratitude. He does seem relieved, as he starts opening the panels that haven't been blown clean off and examining the mess of wires. "The leg… old injury? Something I shouldn't ask about?"

Snatch slides back into her spot under the aft end and continues her clearing, inspecting, point testing and cataloguing of repairs, keeping her left knee raised. "Han?" she wonders, not sure what he means by thanking her. She is where she is at all times, and can't help one way or the other where she's put, most of the time. "Ou-ais, Doc," she replies kind of uncertainly, not sure what else to say to it, but she keeps working, and that keeps the awkwardness out of the subsequent silence until he asks about her leg and her hands fall noticably still among the hubbub on the deck. She stares at the wires, pushing her tongue into her cheek in thought of how to reply. She's not a big fibber. A thief, sure, but lying was never her strong suit. And while it's all well and good to tell nosy officers to keep their noses out of her leg, the Doc— well, he's different. "Ah traht t' off mahnself," she finally replies, her voice remarkably matter-of-fact for someone saying those words. She lets them sit there, for a moment, before she gets her hands moving again, trying to wind back a frayed wire ending to a usable state.

Running into the first patch that looks like it needs replacement rather than just a new stripping, some stretching, and some wishful thinking, Quill grumbles something inarticulate and heads a few paces away to collect a clipboard upon which to record his findings. The recruit is either confident enough or oblivious enough that the first awkward pause following the 'ou-ais' doesn't seem to bother him. At the second, following her revelation, he pauses. Even in Snatch-speak, that one's clear. The moment of silence lingers, then his hands are moving again, checking, working, recording. "I'm glad you didn't," he finally states, simply. "You're good people, and it's not gone unnoticed. I owe you."

"Ah reckon Ah'm glait on't mahn own self," Snatch admits quietly, as if talking to the 'wahr'ns' overhead. "The Cap'm, she'ns got need on min here. More'n e'en mahn momma do… where'er she'ns at." She picks up the point tester and tests the viability of the wiring junction she's attempting to patch back together.

<Trait Roll> Snatch rolls Electronics and achieves a degree of Superb (6).

Blee-op. Positive reading. Snatch seems satisfied with herself, and latches the junction back into place.

"And me," Quill points out, with a grin that's somewhat more subdued than usual. But it's still a grin. "And the rest of Engineering… more people than you might expect." He pauses a moment, carefully teasing wires out of their convoluted mess and trying to figure out what's salvageable, what's fused beyond hope or repair. Changing the subject, he asks, "What do you do in your free time? Assuming anyone ever experiences that again… hypothetical question, I guess."

"Che ne pas," Snatch replies, following the main line from the junction to the next place where the wiring's been ripped through, starting with trimming the most obviously ruined of it as she works toward the fore of the craft. "Ah sleep or git on t' the gym fer a run. Or… swim, now. Docs wan' min t' keep in low-impact 'til mahn ribs an' sulch git healt. For the mos' Ah figger iffin Ah'm awake Ah'd bes' ought bin done sommat profitful."

"What about music? What about art? Profit for the soul," Quill defends the right-brained arts, with just a touch of a smile. His section of the ship (canott!) looks somewhat disemboweled now, wires all over the place, but each one is carefully free of the others, ready to be put back neatly and reattached where it belongs. "We can't just survive, we've got to remember why we're trying to."

Snatch shrugs a little as she repositions herself further under that thar canott. "Ah unsed t' git t' bon-fahr parties, fore ah joint up. An' go dancin' wit' mahn sweetheart. Ah kennt some on them songs, but ah never learnt t' play'm or no'in."

"Music makes the work go faster, or at least makes it more bearable," Quill opines. "Should sing those songs, Snatch. If not on duty, at least some other time, yeah? You're one of the only people who knows them now, they ought to be recorded so…" he pauses. "Well, frack, that came out infinitely more depressing than I intended. It was supposed to be… a celebration of what we've got, not a reminder of everything we don't. Should I have a go at putting this section back together, or would you rather that you or one of the other techs handle that?"

"Yan. Ah heart yin singin' whilst-times y'ns war scrubbin' scrap," Snatch notes, before scooting over toward the fore of the ship to look over his work there so far. "Y'ns seem als t'be kennin out whan'cher fin fair well. Ou-ais, git on't," she approves his continuing before scooting back toward her own work. "A haint got no singer's voice, nei'er. Ah'll learns 'em at'cher, 'fin you will. Y'ns sing pretty. Ye'll fin raht by'm."

"Singing's not about talent," Quill laughs softly. "It's about confidence. Intent. Having a reason to sing, or, in the case of pop music, pretending you do." Clearly, he's one of those people who sings well and therefore cannot imagine the abject trauma of having no tone or rhythm and being forced to make music anyway. He nods, though. "I'd be happy to learn, sing, play, anything you throw at me. That's one of the things that keeps me up at night, ridiculous as it is — when all the other trauma's come and gone, I think, what would I do if my guitar broke? The thing keeps me sane. Relatively speaking." He wanders off briefly, in search of a soldering iron with which to mend the wires.

<Trait Roll> Quill rolls Electronics and achieves a degree of Good (4).

Quill doesn't repair the wires stylishly and in record time, but he does a good enough job. They're fixed, the process of fixing didn't waste too much material, the exposed metal has been covered and the wires are re-bundled, being put back where they belong. "They're howling for help on some of the other ships over there," Quill notes, gesturing back where he grabbed the iron from. "If I get your check mark on this, I'll finish the rest of the simple things here and you can go make some Deck hands gleeful. Or I'll go. Your wish is my command, Snatch."

"Y'ns bracht an kitara witcher?" Snatch muses, "An' y'ns shain't can fix it 'fin in busts?" she asks, that one more an actual question. She leaves him alone, however, for the most, while he's working, not wanting to distract him, and she finishes patching together the bulk of the aft wiring while he's patching the big hole in the fore. Once he's finished, she goes to peek. "Han! Fair as, Doc!" she compliments his work as she pokes around in it, looking critically for anything he might have mispatched. But nothing's out of place. "Y'ns finish thin's here canott off, gin 'er ronnin' bare-heat an' Ah'll go fahn mahnself an other chore. Sommon'll be 'long affer yin t'finish off paitchin' thar hull," she tells him, crawling out from underneath and starting to pack up her workcase.

"Depends how it's broken," Quill thoughtfully shrugs, about the guitar. "Fix it, probably yes. Fix it and still keep the same sound it had before…? Probably not. Instruments are like people, got to be careful what you put them through. They're not the same after they break. Sometimes they're better, but they're never the same." He nods at the rest of the directions, moving to a new patch of wire work. "It's as good as done," Quill promises. "Good luck with the other ship, and don't forget to sing, even if it's just in your own head."

Snatch stands and stretches her back as she stands by the raptor, listening to the Doc and squinting upward almost confrontationally at the maintainance platform high above the deck floor she'd once, and not so long ago, taken that first big step off of. It's still occasionally strange for her, being in this room, but after a moment's staring she pushes it aside. "Ou-ais, Doc," she replies, sounding a little tired. Never the same, indeed. "Ah'll be see'n yin," she hefts her toolcase and heads off to find the next sad canott waitin' for a paitchin'.

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