2236-11-26 - The Principal's Office

The Chief comes in to check on Tamlin. Tamlin is summarily ordered to make nice with a certain Marine.

Date: 2236-11-26

Location: Tool Room, Hangar Deck, //Galactica//

Related Scenes: None

Plot: None

Scene Number: 894

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It's been a while since the raptor rescue team came back from the surface. The passengers may or may not have come back more than a bit carsick, but Isolde did a fair spot on job of getting them home. Way ahead of the original thirty minute window. Once she got free of the post mission debriefings, and avoided being stomped on by any marines, Tamlin took her usual rack time, before popping back into the deck to try to work on the booty she brought back from the surface. And by booty, she means the damaged part. It seemed just damaged by the landing, but this is war, and she's got to be sure. And so here she is, at one of the work benches, picking the piece apart, breaking it down by component.

Walsh wasn't on duty when the Raptor first landed. Even the Chief needs rack time sometimes. But she's been at work today, up to her elbows in a temperamental Viper engine. When she got a free moment, she comes in search of Tamlin. Entering the tool room, she's got a dirty towel in her hands and is wiping the worst of the grease off of them. Even if it does seem to be a lost cause. Her orange jumpsuit is smudged with more here and there, as is her face. "'ey, Dorn," she calls out in greeting on spotting the younger woman at work.

Tamlin looks up from where she's working. Once again, she's got her favourite loupe on, giving her one normal eye and one enormous fish-eye. She sets down the set of pliers she was working with, and turns around on the stool, "Hey, Chief. Little Miss still giving you a hard time?" Tamlin, as a personal running jokes, has taken to naming the ships based on the sort of 'temperament' they display when it comes to repairing them. The one Walsh has been working on is particularly persnickety. A right diva of a ship.

"Little Miss is a cast-iron bitch," is Walsh's dry reply, a put-upon frown showing her feelings for the ship. "Had to completely disassemble and reroute the frakking thrust reverser." She comes over to the table, vaguely registering what Tamlin's working on. "Hey, good job bringing Bravo-Six back. And not getting your ass shot off. Heard you had to jury-rig it with the Toasters still shooting."

"But she flies like nobody's business. Anyway, she likes you. None of the other deckies can handle her at all." While she is about as far from a pilot as one can get, there's a certain pride you feel when you see someone flying the hell out of one of the ships you help to maintain and repair. "She's always losing a gear or getting a sprocket loose unless you're the one working on her." Tamlin makes a face, at Walsh's words, "Staff Sargent spoke to you, did he?" She shrugs, brushing off that comment, "I managed to wing one. Twice! You should have seen me. Scraped up its plating good." She grows more serious as she looks down to the part she's pulling apart. "Smashed it up good, but they had a spare in the ship." A grin, "And I had a couple of meatshields keeping the Cylons off of me." A hand indicates the part she's disassembling, "I just can't figure if this was an accident or not."

Walsh makes a dismissive pfft sort of sound when Tamlin talks about her way with the nemesis ship. "Lucky me." She listens to the description. "Least you hit the damn thing. I've hardly fired a frakking pistol since basic." Leaning in to look at the part, she says, "What makes you think it wasn't? Heard it was the flight computer brought the bird down."

"Nothing." Tamlin speaks with complete honesty. "I just...war's got me on edge, I guess. I keep thinking, "If they could find ways to sabotage our networks and like that, which I don't have any sort of clue about how they did that, then what else could they possibly do that we don't know about." She lifts her shoulders, rolling them to get some of the tension out, "I just want to be sure there isn't anything to find, even if I know there won't be." A deep sigh, "And maybe it just helps me take my mind off of the fact that we can't even find the crew."

Walsh purses her lips in consideration, then nods. "Well, heard an expression once. It ain't paranoia if they really are out to get you. Let me know if you find anything." Of course she knows that Tamlin would do that regardless. It's her way of tacitly blessing the investigation. She stares at the part for another moment before leaning back. "Now what's up with this pissing contest you've started with the marine sergeant?"

"Of course, Chief." While she does occasionally like to crack a joke, or play the fool, she never lets that affect her work. And she has to much respect for Walsh besides. A hand reaches up, pushing back a few strands of hair from her face, "It wasn't like that at all. We came up on some booby trapped grenades, and I went in to disarm the one by...what was his name," she digs around in her head, "Marx. We were in the middle of the path down towards the raptor. Just after I disarmed the trap, the cylons starting approaching. The Staff Sergeant told two of the marines to head back to safety, and then after they were in position, I was supposed to go back to them. Maybe me and Asa, I don't know. Anyway, there I was, ass hanging out, no cover, with my little pop gun, and they were shooting right at me. I decided not to stand around like a bumpkin, and I took off after Marx, who was heading to the raptor, which was also the closest cover. Figured I could get working on the ship and get cover and have a marine to defend me. the SSgt was livid, said I disobeyed his orders. I told him his orders left me in danger, so I went with what I thought was the bets option, which was to go with Marx. Then I told him to talk to you, cause I didn't want to argue. But then he kept at me. Repeated that I didn't follow his order, and I kept saying that his order put me in imminent danger. Then, thank the gods, Asa got us flying and we hauled ass out." She frowns, "Honest, I wasn't trying to disobey an order, but what he wanted me to do was going to get me killed. I chose to stay with my meatshield."

Walsh listens to the explanation, nodding a couple of times throughout. At the end, she says, "Look, I wasn't there, didn't see what happened. But what I do know? The field's a shitty place to deal with an argument. Everyone's stressed as hell, adrenaline's up, tempers hot. Go talk to him, sort this shit out between the two of you. Because the last thing either of us needs is some bootneck with a burr up his ass filing an official complaint. I got more important shit to deal with and so do you. And when you talk to him - just remember one thing: Up here on the deck, it's safety first. Down there - danger ain't got frak all to do with it. Those bootnecks get orders to charge into a mortar barrage, it's: 'Yes, sarge, how fast do I run?' Different worlds, Dorn."

"Different worlds, but I'm no more a marine down there than I am here. I'm just a non-comb, as the SSgt made sure to point out. I can't be expected to run headlong into danger. Unless they give me a much bigger gun. Maybe a tank." That's said with no heat at all, even a bit of humour. She takes the reprimand and the order without protest, and with utter seriousness. Walsh is, after all, the Chief. The Boss. The Big Kahuna. "I'll make it a point to go and talk to him. I don't know that it will do any good. I'm just a mechanic. I like my wrenches and I don't like being shot at."

"Really?" Walsh says with feigned surprise. "Sounds like that's exactly what you did when you went in to disarm a booby-trapped grenade. Or what I'd expect you to do if Gods-forbid there were an accident on the deck here. Fact that it's dirtside doesn't change the job, Dorn. This is the Navy not the Tawa Cruise Lines." A smirk hopefully eases any sting the words might've had as she admits, "And this is exactly why you won't be catching this pretty ass dirtside if I have anything to say about it."

"The grenade was different, I mean, it was just a booby trap, just a demo job, like we trained for. I mean, not exactly like what we do here, but demo's part of the job." Tamlin is big on compartmentalizing her work, a trait most people would recognize in her, "And anyway, he said whomever had experience would do it or he would. And he had more important things to do. As for the deck, danger's part of the job, but we usually also have the right tools for the job. I didn't have the right tools for the job he was asking for me to do. If I had, I would have tried to do it better. No, I would have done it better. But I didn't, and I'm sorry for that."

"Look, Dorn, I'm not trying to bust your balls here. You and I both know that no matter how much bullshit they try to fill your head with in basic, deckies aren't trained for field work. That's why the Gods gave us marines. Just saying... trying to argue 'your order was dangerous' ain't gonna get you very far with them," Walsh points out mildly. "So go, make nice with the sergeant, so you don't end up getting flak from the brass for some dumb-ass situation you shouldn't have been put in in the first place." She wipes her hands once more on the towel, ineffectually, and then sighs. "As for me - back to the belly of the beast."

"Really big marines. You should have seen that SSgt. Big as a house. I'm talking probably a good foot taller than me, maybe two feet wider." She spreads her hands wide, as if to demonstrate the sheer size of one Staff Sergeant Gustavo Delgado. But more seriously, "I know you're not Chief. I guess I just need to explain to him why I didn't do what he wanted me to do, and hope he accepts my apology." She brightens, after, a grin taking over her face, "We shouldn't have been on the ground, but man, we fixed the hell out of that raptor. And got everybody on the team back safe." A beat. "Well, a couple of the marines did get shot up. As they do." A nod, "Thanks for not being too angry, Chief. I really will go talk to him."

"Oh is that who that was?" Walsh says, apparently just now putting a face (or body) to the name. "Well frak, then definitely go make nice. Wouldn't want some giant Scorpian bootneck on the warpath." This said with an obviously joking grin. "Good job bringing that bird back." With that, she starts to move off.

Tamlin returns the grin, watching the Chief head back into the hangar deck, "Thanks, Chief. Good job putting Little Miss in her place." For as long as that lasts. Temperamental ship will be temperamental. "I'll finish up here and go find him before my next shift."


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