Sergeant Lyn Arda is transferred to the Timber Wolves and arrives on the Vanguard. Geoff shows her to her berth and they prepare to be shuttled down to Canceron for the rescue missions.
Location: Vanguard Hangar Deck and Berths
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 1003
It's a heck of a time to be transferred into the Timber Wolves. With the Vanguard at Canceron to help with search and rescue missions, the hangar deck is chaotically busy with Raptors being loaded up with supplies and gear, troops moving on and off the transport ships ferrying to and from the planet.
Sergeant Marilyn Arda hops down off another Raptor that has recently landed, with a duffle bag in one hand, and a backpack slung over her shoulders. The woman grimaces as she takes in the scene with narrowed eyes, adjusting the weight of her "luggage", everything she owns, in those two bags. She looks around for someone who might be able to direct her to where she's supposed to go.
Things are hectic on the ship with everything that's going on, but at least duties and personnel are relatively organized. So Geoff shows up to see who he's meeting from the Raptor. "Yeah, hi," he says, "You the one who needs a bunk assignment?"
Lyn sweeps a hand across her forehead to get her hair out of her eyes and nods in the affirmative to Geoff. "Looks like I arrived just in time for some real work," she states with a grimace. "Sergeant Lyn Arda, Marines recon, newly transferred to the Timber wolves," she notes. She's in her ops gear, and her dogtag glints in the lights of the deck, with 'M. Arda, ser 236541' engraved on the visible side.
"Was listening to the comm chatter on the way in. It sounds like it's really bad planetside. My transfer was pushed through fast because of it. I just need someone to drop my duffle wherever my berth is going to be and I'm ready to head down."
"Uh...okay, Sarge," Geoff replies, looking Lyn over, though not too insubordinately. "It's this way." He turns and leads the way down the corridor toward the berths. "I'm actually supposed to be on the search and rescue run, but I haven't had time to get my gear, yet."
"I didn't get your name," Lyn asks, glancing at his rank insignia, "Lance Corporal?" She follows Geoff as he leads her towards the berths. She nods to others as they pass by, her keen eyes taking in everything as they go. She commits the route to memory as best she can. "I do mostly mountain and cold area rescues, but I can adapt to a flood situation."
"Geoff Courtois," the grunt replies. "I don't have to recite my serial number, do I?" He doesn't seem that keen-eyed, but maybe he's already tired from the extra duty shifts on the ship. "That's good," he says, rounding a corner, "I'm glad we have an expert."
"I think we can skip the serial numbers, Courtois," Lyn quips. "Before the Colonial Marines absorbed me, I was part of the Aquarian Militia, at Arctic Station Thula." That would be the frigid middle of nowhere near a volcano. "If I had a cubit for every idiot scientist who I had to fish out of a crevasse, I'd be retired on a beach on Picon somewhere." She sets a hand against the corridor wall as they turn the corner. "Still not used to being cooped up on ships."
"Me either, exactly," Geoff volunteers. "And this one's smaller than the Galactica. So...the berths are in here," he says, opening a door and stepping in. He looks at a card in his hand. "Let's see, you're in number 27."
Lyn grunts her understanding and steps into the barracks room. She locates number 27, thankfully a bottom bunk. Nothing like rolling over in the middle of the night and falling a half dozen feet onto the floor. The duffel is tossed into the bunk, and Lyn unshoulders her backpack and sets it on one of the small tables in the room. She opens the pack and begins taking out bits of equipment to run through a check. There are ropes and carabiners, harnesses, crampons, ice axes, and other mountain climbing gear. It looks like the sort of things that can be repurposed for water rescue.
"Where are you from, Courtois?" she asks, examining her gear for any damage or faults carefully.
"Caprica," Geoff says, getting some of his gear out from a locker so he can put it on. "So not a lot of, like, rugged rescue experience. But I was stranded in that jungle with some of the other Galactica crew."
"Heard about that," Lyn notes. "If you made it out of there, you should do fine. Just remember that in a flood situation, just like with snow, you have to test the terrain before you step into it. What might seem solid or shallow, might actually be treacherously deep, unstable, or covering something dangerous." At the last word, she unzips her duffel and pulls out a couple of what effectively look like cross country ski poles, handing one to Geoff. "Use one of these. Poke ahead before you step."
Geoff takes the poll, nodding solemnly. "Thanks," he says. Even though he doesn't seem as sharp as Lyn in his bearing, he seems to be taking the situation seriously. "You really did come prepared."
"I'm always prepared. Make sure the soles of your boots are in good order. Another problem with anything wet is coming in contact with any electricity," Lyn notes, as she straps the other pole to the side of her backpack. "Growing up at Thula, you learned really quick that even a game of Pyramid might end early thanks to an avalanche or an angry volcano." There's a slight smirk at that, she might be joking, but the deadpan is strong with this one.
Geoff looks down at his shoes. "I think they're all right," he says, looking back to Lyn as he straps on his jacket. "I guess we have different problems in the city," he replies.
That gets a tight smile from Lyn and she pulls out a datapad and taps it a few times. She turns it around to show Geoff an image of icy terrain, mountainous, with the orange glow of lava like a molten river along a ridge. "Yeah, this is home for me," she says.
"Frack," Geoff says after he gives the picture a look. "Why?" he asks, almost reflexively, then realizes that that is rude. "I mean...just...it seems like it would be stressful to live...by lava."
"Arctic Station Thula is a science station. Scientists from all over the Twelve Colonies come to study the volcano. My father was stationed there and my brother and I were born there." Lyn gives a shrug, looking at the picture fondly. "When home is what most people would consider a dangerous hell, then living and working everywhere else is easy."
"Uh-huh," Geoff says, nodding slowly. "I mean...did you like it? Growing up? Were you used to it?" He's got most of his gear on by now, and is still holding that ski pole.
"Down on Canceron, they're calling this a disaster, a rescue mission. On Aquaria? We call it Thursday," Lyn quips. She puts the datapad away and hauls a rifle out of her duffle. She goes about disassembling it for cleaning. "I loved it well enough while I was living there. Didn't know any better I guess. But the cold runs in my blood, and I'm much happier on a frozen peak than inside a tin can floating in space. I'll adapt though. It's my super power," she jokes.
"I don't love being cold," Geoff says. "But...once you're in the forces, it doesn't really matter what conditions you /want/ to be in, right?"
"Sign on the dotted line, see the galaxy, be a hero, sleep in a 3 foot by 7 foot bunk for however long we keep you," Lyn mutters. "It's not so bad." That last doesn't sound terribly convincing. Probably why she's still just a Sergeant in her mid 30s. She digs into her duffel and pulls out a sealed packet, tossing it to Geoff. "Don't eat them all at once," she instructs. They're...cookies? Real cookies? With sprinkles on them?"
Geoff looks almost embarrassed by Lyn's description of the service, nodding once. "Money's all right," he says. He catches the packet, and actually smiles. "Hey. Thanks," he says, sounding pretty sincere about his pleasure. There are sprinkles.
"Keep them a secret or my supplier might vanish," Lyn warns with a faux-stern look. The rifle is put back together with a final snickt of oiled metal locking into place. "You ready to go save some civvies, Courtois?"
Geoff lifts a hand while looking up as if making an oath by the gods, and slips the cookies into his locker, closing it up. "I'm ready," he says, grabbing his rifle.