First Day (Shadowhawks)

[Fredrick Hoffman]

0700 Hours, October 3rd, 2003 – Squadron Briefing Room #1, Pilot Ready Rooms

"Gerákiaskiá gia ti̱ zo̱í̱,"
Shadowhawks For Life

The blond haired man entered the briefing room precisely on time and he began speaking as he entered. It was his way, and any pilot with any shred of experience on Hyperion and with a little bit of common sense to back it up knew that if they were to be seeing the Chief then they damn better be on time. If not, well, there would be no second briefing. Generally, if the Chief was coming to speak directly to you then it wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time but something important. That combined with it being the first official briefing of the tour ensured that it would certainly be to the detriment of the pilot who missed it.

The Shadowhawks were before him this morning. They were the Battlestar’s first squadron, and that title did not merely mean their administrative order. However, along with exceptional skill sometimes come character flaws. Their leader, Captain Wilson, for example was known for his tardiness... and his pranks… and his drinking… and his womanizing… Fortunately he and Chief Hoffman had built a working relationship. Hoffman was strict but fair and Wilson was a troublemaker but he knew where to draw the line between work and play. With luck, the entire squadron would be assembled in their seats and ready on time.

“Good morning.” he said as he walked past the few rows of chairs and toward the front of the room. It was an odd relationship that chiefs had aboard the ship, and the Chief of the Deck more than the others. He headed an eight hundred man department and had no direct superior save for the top brass, but he was still officially subordinate to even the youngest and greenest ensign in the room. Unofficially he was a department head with a wealth of experience and authority on par with a major or lieutenant colonel. Therefore he went straight about his business rather than waiting on introductions and formalities. The Shadowhawks weren’t too big on such things anyway. Well, at least most of them weren’t.

“To our new pilots I say, ‘Welcome’. To the rest I say, ‘Welcome back’.” Hoffman began. Most of the crew had only returned from leave a few days ago for this, the first “business day”. Hoffman and most of his deck crew had been aboard for a bit longer than that and were absolutely ready for the flyboys on this first shift of the new tour. “I’m Senior Chief Hoffman. We’ll be getting underway within the hour, but we have a few announcements before you boys get out in the black.” As he flipped through his notes he continued, “First things first. Your cadet is welcome to observe the deck and use the simulators but he’s not stepping foot inside one of my Vipers until he’s been trained. If he can get a training instructor and log enough hours in the sims then he might find himself out there by the end of the rotation if he’s lucky… and good.” Even that was generous of the Chief. The last thing he needed was some academy teenager crashing one of his Vipers.

“For the rest of you new people. If you have any problem with my crews you come directly to me.” He added as he looked across the twenty faces seated before him, maybe four of them being unfamiliar. “My guys are all professionals and there should be no issues, but I will absolutely not have anyone having heated words with my men in the middle of the deck.” He paused then added, “Nor are there going to be any flyboys performing unsanctioned modifications. If you want to fine tune your Viper then you do it with one of my boys there, not off on your own.” Lest you frak things up and get yourself killed… and ruin my Viper. He refrained from saying that last bit, but his tone made clear that no one should test that rule.

“Alright.” he said clapping his hands and changing the subject back to the actual briefing. “Guess what wasn’t installed while we were in port.” He barely paused for the rhetorical statement. “In their infinite wisdom, the Admiralty has decided NOT to equip the Hyperion with the Command Navigation Program at this time.” There were a mixture of responses from the group, some sad at the news, others joyous that they didn’t get it, and others feigning sarcastic responses either way. “Neither the big ship nor the individual Vipers have gotten it.”


The CNP was a recently developed program that was going to be installed across nearly every computer system in the entire Colonial Fleet, planetary defense networks, and even many civilian vessels. In short the program allowed for massively increased efficiency of all craft by faster ship-to-ship information feeds through the creation of a massive interconnected network. In the Vipers it also included advanced HUD elements such as revamped IFF, improved targeting, enhanced scanners, and more easily operated electronic countermeasures in one big update package. The civilian contractors working on the program boasted that it would improve combat effectiveness by 300% and that it could turn a nugget pilot into a fighter ace with the flick of a switch.

That may have been an unbelievable stretch of the truth, but the CNP was still supposed to be the greatest thing to hit combat aviation since, well, wings. Although it would not make a ship’s worst pilot better than its best, the CNP still gave a very noticeable edge. Pilots with the CNP equipped would score in a higher tier than they did on evaluation tests with the program disabled. Overall, the actual average performance increase was near 20%. However the CNP generally did more for poorer pilots than it did for the top aces. It would not make a nugget the equivalent of an ace, but it could make the difference between two skilled aces only separated by a small margin of skill. In combat every little bit counts, the difference between life and death.

“With the Ophion Games it was decided that it would be an unfair advantage for any vessel to have the program.” Actually, some commander had complained about being on an unequipped ship and for some stupid reason the Admiralty had listened. Apparently no one ever told him that war wasn’t fair, and no one ever told the Admiralty that the hurt feelings of one commander didn’t justify purposely leaving the Fleet at a greatly reduced effectiveness should anything other than games occur. Apparently they also hadn’t thought through the disadvantages between a ship fresh off a month’s leave with many untested new members versus a ship coming off the line with a well-trained and cohesive crew. It was doubtful that Hyperion’s Commander would lodge such a petty complaint of his own though.

The Chief continued to explain, “Therefore, the CNP will be installed on all ships after the games end. Because Hyperion just left a prolonged period of drydock, we will not be stopping back for the CNP but will continue on our scheduled patrol and receive it sometime in March when we return.” He flipped the page of his notes. “Take that as you like.” There were bound to be varied responses to the general news of the delay as well as the reasoning for it. Some were bound to be technophobic or simply believe that a pilot should not overly rely on some program to fly and do his fighting for him. Others were probably itching for that next piece of tech and eager to try it out in the war games and then to perfect it during those long and boring months on patrol. The latter would be sadly disappointed. The former would only be happy temporarily but the inevitable implementation meant that it was but a short-lived victory.

“Alright, next up.” Hoffman continued. “Lieutenant Tremaine.” He turned toward the experienced pilot. “Viper 26 was retired from service. She’s been moved to one of the museum hangers on Scorpia and is now a piece of history representing the strike on Pallas at the war museum there.” The ’02 operation was now widely being considered as “textbook” hence the recent desire to get a hold of one of the Vipers for the Colonial Military War Museum. With luck maybe Tyler would get a footnote on the museum sign. “Therefore you’ve got a new bird off the factory floor, new Viper smell and everything.”

The Chief paused to allow the man a moment to lament or get in a quip about it before continuing with the briefing. “All other Vipers have been repaired, given full maintenance, and even repainted.” Hoffman continued as he turned back to the group as a whole. “You have three days here still in dock and then three days out in the Black to get familiar with them and put in your service requests for any fine-tuning before the Ophion Games begin.”

He waited for that run-on to sink in before continuing. Normally he’d wrap up here and hand it over to Wilson, but, well, Striker was currently suffering from a considerable hangover after apparently enjoying his last night of freedom and no duties. Thus the Chief gladly covered most of what the Squadron Leader would next tell his men. “Some basic info on the Games…” Hoffman pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that had the basic itinerary on it.

“Anyone never been?” he asked as he flattened the sheet of paper. A few hands went up. On average you’d take someone’s service length and divide by three or four to get the number of times they’ve been. Of course there were the oddities that either seemed to participate every year or had gotten odd rotations and never had been. Then there were the guys who were just too new or had been posted to planetary garrisons, space stations, or schools and missed out. For four year old Hyperion, this was to be her second Ophion Games.

“For those who have there aren’t any surprises.” Hoffman stated and then continued for the benefit of the newer pilots. “There’s the 400 warship arrival clusterfrak followed by the opening ‘parade’.” That first part of the games, the not fighting part, was probably actually the most impressive display of military force. “Day 2 is basic patrol.” AKA routine and rather boring. “3 is simulated moon assaults and damage control sims. Day 4 is reciprocal boarding actions and then cyberattacks later in the day for the CIC.” He tapped his pen as he rapidly read down the list. “5 is long range dogfights and triple A engagements.” Finally something the Viper jocks would look forward to. “Then of course 6 is the big one.” 400 ships put together in a confined area and suddenly told ‘go’ and just blasting away, no tactics just carnage. That’s the day of the games that the media liked to broadcast and what most people actually thought of. In truth that was just the culmination of the warm-up week.

“The games proper start on day 8 and go a full two weeks or until one side is destroyed. Hyperion is part of the OpFor this year.” Hoffman refrained from commenting about how they were thus expected to lose. Instead he quickly remembered the really only ‘new’ bit of information in the entire spiel. “Oh.” he cut in as he crumpled the paper again. “We’re playing separatists this year.” A change from the 35 years of a traditional Cylon enemy.

”Enough of that.” Hoffman then concluded as he tossed the balled paper over his shoulder. “Shadowhawks are scheduled for 8AM CAP and Alert Fighters, and standby duty for the 8PM watch.” He paused and looked around the room for a moment. “Seeing as how we’re still tied up to the pier, no such duties are required of you for the next three days.” He then turned toward Wilson. “You still have the deck and may fly during those times at your leisure.” Training, pleasure, shenanigans… whatever it is that pilots would want to do when in the cockpit and not actually on mission. Turning back to the larger group, he added, “Don’t expect tube launches though. My boys aren’t going to send a perfectly good Viper hurtling into the arms of the shipyards. Hanger launches only so long as the tubes are obstructed.”

“Any questions?”



[I'm breaking my own rule by posting with a character before being approved, but I figured the need to push the plot forward takes precedence over procedure this one time.]

[Tyler Tremaine]

It was zero six forty seven, Tyler was already in his flight suit and wide awake. He'd woken up at oh five hundred along with Exile, Adonis, Helios, Slim Sexy, Cronus and a few of the others. He had trouble waking Fox up and in the end, he decided to let her sleep after she mumbled something about castration with a rusty... er.. something unintelligible that he didn't care to delve into deeper. Also on the absentee ballot was Striker, who rolled over for twelve seconds, and said to start without him, and he'd catch up... which he did not. In point of fact, Tyler woke Chris up when he went back almost and hour later, and it was a groggy process that involved three cups of coffee, and Tyler having to dig through his locker for him to find his pilot shoes and tags. In the end, Ty did get him up and going, if not a little worse for the wear, and smelling a bit like. Well. A bit like Tati.

The run had been a simple one, and Tyler held the group to an six minute pace. Not the average for any flight team, but this wasn't just any flight team. On the normal day, Wilson would hold his entire squadron to a minimum limit of eight minute miles or less. Of course, on the average day, Wilson was up before Tremaine. Running on a Battlestar was not like running on the ground. There were no hills, no straight aways, and you were constantly having to notify people to clear the way. Tyler was used to it by now of course, but every run was a little bit different, and for those who did not know the Hyperion intimately, the routes they chose were not always obvious, or easy to renavigate. They chose their routes based on the traffic and maintenance of the day, as on a starship as large as this one, everyday presented one or the other. So it was important for new pilots, like Adonis, stopping because of the pace could easily leave you turned around in an unfamiliar passage or causeway. Tyler led the pack alongside Helios and the two carried a conversation, in bursts, about their time off and how they'd spent it. Ty informed Kosta about his mother's "New Man" and he was pretty sure that Phaethon agreed with him, that it was a bad idea. And Helios shared some of his story as well.

Talking during a run was not like talking during a strong paced walk. You spoke while exhaling only, and conversations tended to be only the facts, without all the elaborations that typically flavor stories. So finding someone to speak with in a run required that they be detail dependant, and also in incredible physical form. Tyler had learned it from his mother in his youth, and he found it relaxing in a way. Things like that took your mind off the strain of the pace, and helped the length of the run go by. His mother the Sergeant Major, always set a quick pace, and during his vacation on Caprica, they ran together four mornings a week. And as always they'd held a steady and interesting conversation each morning. In his youth, when she was stationed on Caprica, and he was staying with his father, she would call him in the mornings and they would chat on headsets with each other while they ran half the planet apart. So chatting with Phaethon like this was a reminiscent pleasure for his mind, and relaxing.

After the twenty minute run, they had a thirty minute workout, concentrating on arms and chest, followed by a very short cooldown. Ty was pleased with the rest of the Hawks, as they had stayed in fine shape over the course of their leave. Which, other than Kosta or Slim Sexy, was sort of a semi-surprise. Not that the Shadowhawks were ever lax, but they did tend to burn the candle from both ends while off duty, and for a first day back, it was a great showing.

At zero six forty seven, Tyler had not had time to bathe properly, in lieu of his illustrious leader, and had settled on a three minute shower and running some gel through his hair. Don't know that anyone would call that a 'style', but it was what he'd given. Breakfast was equally uneventful, though it was usually his favorite meal from the military. Military chow was almost always sub par, but breakfast was better than any sit-down diner. Pancakes, waffles, Leonise toast, biscuits, muffins, bagels(a favorite of Adonis) and danishes. Eggs in any way you could desire to include, frittatas, breakfast burritos, and even omelets made to order with anything in them. Fresh sawmill gravy, bacon, hot links, sausage, ham, hash browns, home fries, grits, cereal, oats, every fruit in the verse, even salads and heart healthy fiber. It was a literal banquet and Ty's favorite part of any morning and thanks to his perfect squadron leader, he just didn't have time to sit down to any of it today.

So he'd settled on toast and coffee at the last minute, and was now hustling to the briefing room. It only took him three minutes to trot through the causeways as the number fourteen hatch was open for some reason, so it cut his trip nearly in half. When he turned the final cut in the trip, he eased up and slowed his pace, saying a friendly "Good morning" to Fox, who was huddled just outside the briefing room, blowing curls of steam off of a cup of coffee. She looked very tired, and had the remains of bags under her eyes, so he very sensibly offered her some toast to help her stomach after what Tyler easily recognized, as a hangover. He was a pro at such things after all.

"Thank you." She sounded a bit surprised, but genuinely grateful at the gesture. She looked... in short, as if she could use a kind gesture today. And she smiled pleasantly toward him - as pleasantly as she could wincing from the headache she was undoubtedly suffering.

Once he walked through the door, Ty made his way to his seat in the second row, and slid in next to Exile. He set his coffee down on the small hand table that was fastened to the desklike theater chair, and pulled his notepad from his jacket. This morning was to be a briefing by Captain Wilson and the Chief of the Deck, Fredrick Hoffman. Hoffman and Ty went way back to the Triton, where both the head honchos of the Hyperion's current deck crew, worked side by side with the Reapers. That had been a different time, back when the Sagittarian Revolts had consumed all his time, or else Bainbridge had kept Tyler moving at all times in an effort to take him from a headstrong kid, and turn him into an instrument of death. If there was one person who would have understood that the Reapers were required to get their hands dirty, Hoffman was him. He'd helped Ty learn quite a bit more than what regulations required, and surprisingly over the years, fate had kept them in fairly regular service together. It was fair to say, that Tyler both liked and feared the Chief, along with wholehearted respect.

He leaned over to Exile and nudged her elbow, then nodded to Wilson and smirked, then said, "You think he's gonna run the briefing today?" They shared a moments snickering when Wilson finally called them to attention and sat them all down, prepared for the mornings debriefing and was just stepping back when Hoffman came into the ready room, already in his groove before ever getting to the podium. An average height and lean build made him barely noticeable in a room of pilots, but his name carried almost as much respect as the commanders aboard, and he might have been a better speaker. Of course, you don't run eight hundred men and women by being shy, you have to know how to motivate people, and that was something Tremaine, sorely lacked.

The Chief got right to business, not wasting any time as was his nature. Typical of anyone who held command, he nonchalantly reminded everyone to stay off his knuckle draggers, by addressing the "new guys" rather than the more experienced. Although, who wouldn't have seen right that as a solid threat to everyone in the room, was anyone's guess... He went on to explain that all Vipers were being returned to regulation condition, to include all modifications, and Ty's heart skipped a beat to think that some frak-jack knuckle dragger had tossed his machine bored microthruster ports in a bin to be melted down and reused by the fabrication team. But surely Hoffman, who'd known how many hours the Tyler had spent sweating on a metal lathe, would have had the good sense to put them somewhere safe until Ty could collect them. He would ask immediately after the briefing, and he made a note in his pad, though something of that caliber was truly unnecessary. As though he could forget it.

Tyler, like most Viper Jocks, had spent the last three years working out so many minute changes and alterations, if not outright modifications to his Mark VII, that if anyone tried to reset it back to factory settings, hell. It would have been easier to just replace the damn thing. It was a hollow threat at best. They would fix a great many specific issues with the mods, but overall, this threat was a deterrent, that tended to proceed every major mission that any Battle Group underwent. The idea here was, don't change shit, and learn to use the standard, even if the standard, isn't up to your standard. Besides, Hoffman never stopped Tremaine, because Tyler never made any moves, of any kind, without deck crew standing there making absolutely sure he didn't frak it up. Your Viper is your life, you break it, you bought the farm.

“Alright.” Hoffman said putting his hands together in a fashion that screamed irritability, “Guess what wasn't installed while we were in port.” Tyler's eyebrow raised to hear the what the pride of the fleet had been denied. “In their infinite wisdom, the Admiralty has decided NOT to equip the Hyperion with the Command Navigation Program at this time.” Tyler raised his hands a slight bit in admiration of the Admiralty and their non-godlike wisdom, and listened as the Chief went on to explain that they wouldn't even get the CNP after the Ophion wargames, but March of ot' four. He finished his own conclusion of this decision by saying, “Take that as you like.”

That was just brilliant. Frakin government was worthless, and he was meant to uphold their will. Tyler knew for a fact that there were other ships in the fleet that would have the CNP, and be actively using it against them. They were suppose to have it, and they were suppose to be unveiling the Steers Twelve. And what about the fact that the opposition was still out there? And gods forbid something actually happen out on the armistice line... ok, nothing would happen on the ass end of space, but frak it all, what was the point in not installing the single best military upgrade of the last decade in the single greatest ship of the last decade? Who the frak made that call? Frakin Politicians, he thought to himself. Tyler was lost in thought when his name pulled him back to the present, as Hoffman called him out amongst the Squadron.

[/i][/b][/ul]

Tyler's heart stopped beating. That was a joke, and one in poor taste Ty might add. But he wasn't done, "She’s been moved to one of the museum hangers on Scorpia and is now a piece of history representing the strike on Pallas at the war museum there. Therefore you've got a new bird off the factory floor, new Viper smell and everything.” He simply gave a curt laugh and stared at Hoffman, it was a dream. Just a bad dream. He was just screwing with him, and any minute, he'd crack a blonde haired, asinine smile, and say that he was joking. Here we go, Ty thought as Hoffman started talking again. “All other Vipers have been repaired, given full..."

Oh Gods, Griffin mourned to himself, as the Chief who did not play pranks, moved on to other issues. It wasn't a joke. Two Six was gone. His baby. His precious baby. Griffin slumped in his chair, and buried his sudden aching head into his hand as his stomach knotted up in misery. "I'm sure Two Six is in a better place," Someone joked quietly to his back, but Griffin snapped back in a gruff and bile coated voice, "Its way too soon..." Not hours, years. Years. Years of working on his VII. Months of cumlitive work. Frak, an entire year of working out the changes in advance, prior to getting his hands on one. A weeks worth of bitter fighting and actual bribing to retain his Viper nomenclature. Custom HUD elements. Reboared microthruster ports. Shimmed ailerons. Studded exhaust vents. Refinished canopy fittings. Solid weld fuel lines. Over one hundred hours of work with two highly skilled, and no longer present, genius deckhands who'd worked with him night and day on his nasal cone to arrange the perfect pressure resistance above Mach point eight in atmosphere. Refitted links on the Aft Vector Thrusters of his main drives. The black ink signature of Kali Atorin above his fuel gage readouts, from when they'd frakked in the cockpit, back in ot' two over Caprica. "Oh Gods," He mumbled into his hands, as he slumped even lower. They shot his stallion. His baby was gone....

He didn't hear anything else Hoffman said until he gave their CAP timelines. And then there was this gap again as he fretted flying CAP in some homewrecker Mark Seven, that would be tramping her factory ass all around his baby's bedroom, getting her nasty fresh oils all over his assigned deckhands gloves. "Any questions," Hoffman asked.

Ty raised his hand, "Do I get visitation, or did you already shoot my girl?"

[Fredrick Hoffman]

Tremaine was the first to respond to the opening of the floor to questions. Apparently he wasn't happy about the news that had pertained only to him... Hoffman couldn't blame him.

"Visitation hours are Monday to Friday 1000 to 1800 hours excepting Colonial holidays. Children under five enter at no cost." Hoffman replied in a completely deadpan tone as if that's what Tyler had actually asked. "15% military discount if you show your ID." he added, finally cracking the slightest grin.

"She's in a better place, Griffin, and will end up outliving all the rest of the birds on the deck." The Chief left out the part about that "up state farm" where it would be retired didn't have any room to gallop, or now leaving the horse metaphor, no place to soar. He also didn't mention anything about it not being Tyler's in the first place to lose and lament over. A greener pilot, yes, but not Tyler. His experience coupled with all those years he and Hoffman had been together on various ships had earned him reprieves from such talk.

"Before you start thinking about kissing your sidearm," he added, "take a stroll to storage room C7. That might brighten your day a bit." Before they sent it out, Hoffman had removed what was removable from it. Many of the upgrades and fine tuning were permanent enough that their removal would completely frak with the bird, but a few extra pieces here and there could be salvaged and the boys at the museum wouldn't be the wiser. From there, Hoffman had also requisitioned what other pieces and parts he could from 26's old build. In the end, they'd managed to scrape together about 90% of the old equipment and copies of the old software and specifications. It wasn't the same as having his old bird but it was a start, and it was all waiting in that storage room.

[Viktoriya Gilyov]

It really didn't seem fair. Where was the complaint filing system of the gods? Prayer, right? Prayer. She'd thought sincerely of asking that she either have to deal with a hangover, or the morning after having sex with Striker... not both at once. It was a bit of overkill to her pride, her thought processes, her general sense of well being... and that “fresh” feeling she was supposed to have according to the commercials pertaining to all things menstruation. In truth, she hadn't really realized there was a sense of freshness, therefore an antithesis to this sense of freshness, but if ever there was a sensation of being really, truly sordid... it was the way Striker had winked at her as she passed by him. Well, she wasn't getting into the Elysian fields. Why? She smelled like Striker. She'd showered, collapsed on her bunk and pulled the pillow over her head to stifle the outside world – or perhaps on the off chance that she'd suffocate in her sleep and not have to face the day.

She'd liked to have woken up wondering if it had happened. She'd woken up to the tell-tale signs (under her clothes, of course), that Striker had sucked on her skin long enough in rather intimate areas to create little bursts of broken capillaries. Hickeys. She'd been beaten under her clothes, which was something she'd taken caution and modesty to hide. Gods, this was going to be a horrendous day. It was already a horrendous day. It had begun as an innocuous night that had ended terribly, not because the calibre of sex was terrible, but because the calibre of company was. Striker. Mr. Congeniality himself. Gods. She'd have rather frakked the nugget. Not that the nugget probably wasn't a very nice nugget, but he was the nugget and therefore the target of all manner of degradation, even in the personal mental narration of a certain generally-placid Lieutenant Gilyov.

Where were we? Oh yes. Hitting a superior. Then the superior hitting back. That was right. She wished she'd had a shiner to show for that... Hades, she might have... who had a hand mirror -?

She didn't want to think... anything, right now. She wasn't fully awake until 0630, and then she'd hastily gotten dressed and styled her hair with hair spray. The blond locks, once long, were short-shorn now and smoothed back. Pragmatic was never sexxy. Striker still hit it. Superegos; gotta love 'em.

When Ty found her, she'd taken coffee in lieu of food. She'd have taken coffee in lieu of life at that point. She hoped it would help her at least fake having had a better night than she had. This was the first hangover she'd ever had aboard the Hyperion. She was less concerned about what anyone else would think, though, and more concerned about Striker remaining her dirty little secret. And hoping he'd stick a fork (or a certain invasive organ of his) in an electrical outlet and zap his own memory of the event. She really didn't want to catch flak from Striker, and as sure as she was standing there, she was going to.

”Good morning.” Tyler was passing through like a ray of obnoxiously bright sunshine. He came bearing toast, though, so she could forgive him for the... sheer frakking annoying fact of being Griffin on a day when she wished everyone else was temporarily dead.

”Thank you.” What's good about it? Not even orgasm. That's what... but she was grateful to him. It was nice gesture. She smiled to him, then dropped her head when he was out of sight with a faint and miserable sigh. What a frakking attitude to have. Fox at least usually maintained the appearance of being positive. She'd spent enough days in simple neutrality, drifting by like a wraith, that a negative or a positive stood out against the gray. Gods, what a negative. Did they do vaginal amputations...was that even a thing?

It was definitely something to consider after Captain Wilson. Gods... Just... Gods.

She took notes. Attentively, and after all the introductory and unimportant things. She didn't offer much, but she wanted to be sure she could process what she was being told... when she was able to process what was being told. She could have cared less in that moment. CNP. Great, the Hyperion was going to be one of the most modern outdated ships there. She imagined this was going to be one of those survey moments, an intentional design so they could further press the importance of the CNP system. Let's again rehash what happens when our average pilots go up against our fancy shiny new software. Great. They were going in statistics. She didn't believe for a second it was an accident or a fluke or a complaint. It was another unofficial test. The Hyperion logically would have been one of the first equipped if simply because its systems should have been more up-to-date than older battlestars. At least, that's what made sense to her. But, the stats would be useful. She really didn't care if they gave a leg-up to certain pilots.

She felt bad for Griffin, genuinely so, but she wasn't as attached as she normally might have been. She made note of the schedule, and basically crammed as much as she could verbatim into the notebook. She wasn't going to be committing much to memory at this moment, and she knew that. She wanted to be reminded of even things she already knew, just to refresh her mind of those things she should have been focused on when she was more capable of the focus she needed.

[Phaethon Kosta]

Phaethon's was awakened by Tyler around oh-five-hundred. Although obviously next on the list, Helios had actually been roused by Griffin's attempts to wake Viktoriya in the bunk below him. Despite some considerable effort, the woman was hardly stirring. It was certainly uncharacteristic of her. Wilson also didn't join them, claiming he'd catch up to the later. Such a claim was typical from him, but the fact that he never did actually catch up was the uncharacteristic element from him that morning. Their squadron leader and by-the-book Lieutenant Golyov were both sleeping in and leaving all the responsibility to TJ? What are the worlds coming to?

Those that actually got up (Kosta, Tremaine, Casey, Wisla, Lion, and Trenton) were soon off for pre-breakfast PT. During the morning run, Phaethon kept beside their current de facto leader and in between breaths caught up with stories of the past month. Tyler did most of the talking while Phaethon mostly listened. Their personalities were just that way, but in this case the facts also helped reinforce that. TJ went on about his mother and her escapades as well as the pilot's own various experiences on the long leave. Phaethon only had a few day trips to the planet, some nights with Striker at the shipyard's bar, and then lots of nothing on board Hyperion. Really riveting stuff...

The run was followed by some time at the gym. All in all the strenuous exercise, run included, hadn't lasted more than an hour. As they began to break up and head off to the showers or the mess in their little groups, Phaethon wondered if they'd all be able to keep up this pace. It was only day one of a six month rotation. Those thoughts were interrupted by the smells of the mess. Some chose to take it easy on military food and even might skip a meal in such a situation. Phaethon, however, had gone hungry enough times in his life to appreciate the three squares provided on Hyperion and to make sure he fueled up before his watch.

A full breakfast and then a hurried shower left little time left and Phaethon barely made it into the briefing room before the Chief. The initial stuff was either shit that didn't apply to Phaethon or the same old shit as always. Same Chief, same rules. What came next was new though, the CNP upgrade was being postponed. Helios had no fraking idea what it did, but it seemed stupid to handicap the ship like that. One more thing they wouldn't have to work with on that long tour too.

The slight disappointment about the CNP seemed petty when the next bit of information came their way... they'd taken Griffin's Viper. Reason or not, there's a special connection between a pilot and his Viper. You can't just give him a new one and slap a sticker on the side with the old number on it. Plus, 26 was probably the most fine tuned and upgraded Viper in the Air Wing, hades, maybe even the entire Colonial Fleet! There was a lot of time, sweat, and personal funds invested in that bird. Phaethon had even helped a bit with his own past expertise as a deckhand. Sucked to be Ty today.

The news about the games and then their daily duties was only half heard. Like the intro, it wasn't really anything new but now Phaethon also had Ty's troubles still on his mind. The mood finally lifted ever so slightly when Tyler made a quick quip once the Chief had finished. He couldn't help but smile at that, and it seemed the Chief was in a good mood for he jested back... or at least it seemed like it. It was hard to read the Chief's face and tone.

At Hoffman's last statement, Phaethon turned back to look at Ty in the second row. "We gonna put her back together?" he asked. He wasn't sure exactly what the Chief meant, but he had an idea. C7 was actually just feet from where Viper 26 was normally parked. It had to be salvaged parts, some sort of consolation prize.

[Chris Wilson]

Chris had come back in from the Vipers Den around two-forty-five. He had stumbled back still feeling drunk from the night before. He fell in to bed and it seemed like it had only been minutes when Ty had come and woke him up. Chris could feel his head pounding the moment he opened his eyes. Chris was quick to let him know he would catch up. It hadn't been uncommon for him to do so from time to time. This time though he rolled back over in the bed, closed the curtain again and pulled toe blanket up over his head till Tyler returned and woke him around six-fifteen.

It was the first day they were all to return to duty and he was hung over. He would pass it off as one lost night at the shipyard before they were to depart, with only Vik knowing the truth behind the night. Chris rushed out of bed upon Tyler's return and made his way down to get himself a cup of coffee before he to made his way to the briefing. He passed by Tyler and Vik as they exchanged only a few words, Chris of course offering Vik a smile wink as a reminder of the night before.

Once everyone was there he called them all to attention then seated them. Chris walked over and took a seat between Tatiana and Samantha as they waited for the Chiefs briefing. Unlike the others Chris pulled no note pad from his pocket. He sat there and waited as the Chief entered the room and began his briefing.

Most of what was covered was a given. They would Have first round on Cap as per standard, the political machine of the colonies had frakked things up again, Viper two-six was being decommissioned. It was a typical day on the Hyperion... wait what? Ty was getting a replacement viper. This was as bad a news as it got, side from Viper one being retired from the fleet.

Chris glanced to Ty and saw the look of horror form on his face when he realized it was actually a true statement. Chris let it go for now as the Chief continued his brief. Once it came to a close and the comments were made. "Chief, With the retirement of Viper two-six, we will need Griffs replacement to be up to snuff by the time we are going in to the war game, it would be unfair to disadvantage him like that."

[Samuel Lion]

Samuel was sleeping comfortable dreaming of being able to be back in his home. His nice comfortable seat the blazing speed and freedom his home brought him, not to mention the incredible view. Being in the hot seat was what Samuel dreampt most about at nights. The sky the silence, his viper was his home and he was looking forward to getting back into her and flying again. Simulators where a great tool and they where very realistic but nothing beat the real thing, its kinda like sex in that way.

As he was dreaming he was on his old cags six and had him in gun range getting ready to squeeze the trigger when he was shaken awake. It wasn't the squad leader it was Ty, he wanted to get an early start. Samuel pulled the blanket back over him and looked at Ty and said. "Sir with all due respect it is O'dark Thirty and i need to eat before working out. Working out is just like a viper you have to have fuel to make it work right." he said groggily. Ty just gave him a look that said get up FNG or else i will get you up. Samuel sighed and rolled out. He got his gear on and prepared for the morning workout. Apparently it was upper body day in the Tremaine house hold today, Samuel didn't mind doing upper body and spent a lot of time on it (that's what the ladies wanted to see so he made sure to keep his upper body looking as good as he could.) However Samuel preferred leg days. A pilots real strength needed to be in his legs and lungs. Having a strong upper body and fantastic core where essential but your legs gave you your turning power and that's what you needed to have the edge on other pilots.

After the workout Samuel had some chow a simple breakfast really. He had eggs, bacon, an apple, and of course a bagel. "I know that carbs aren't the best way to eat but I'll be damned if i can pass up a good bagel" he said as he picked up a bagel putting his middle finger through the center of it while he picked it up.

Then Samuel moved to the briefing room where he saw fox standing with Ty. As he passed them he said. "Morning sir's. " Then he looked at Vik her and Wilson skipped morning pt for the day, Samuel wondered why he wasn't able to do it as well but a good workout was a great way to start the day. "Fox you look lov" He stopped in his tracks she didn't look overly bad but she didn't look her usual. "Well you look like shit. sir." He said with a smile on his face. then walked into the briefing room right on time (fifteen minutes early.) He pulled out his notepad and pen to take notes.

Samuel listened to the Chief as he spoke And smiled at the comment an other hawk said in relation to Ty's viper. After all was said and it was the Q&A portion Samuel was the second to raise his hand. He had written in big bold letters NOT GETTING CNP UNTIL AFTER ROTATION!?!? It confused him and aggravated him to a great extent. The CNP was a marvel of a system it made everything more stream line and it made even a nugget almost as good as a decent pilot.

"Senior Chief i am hearing you correctly all the other ships will have the CNP system except for the biggest baddest beast in the sky?" It was a rhetorical question and he only paused briefly for his simple answer before he continued."Sir I have read up on the CNP system not overly much but what i have read is astonishing. That system will make communication and data transfers around 64% faster and the updates to the vipers will make just a good pilot a great one. If you add to that our birds being taken out of the specs that each individual pilot likes well we are in for a shit storm of trouble. This new systems IFF and targeting updates alone are a huge shift of power to the other vessel's."He paused to take a breathe and allow the Chief to speak. After Hoffman was done he looked to Ty and said. "A museum is no place for a Viper. They crave the skies as much as we do. It is a sad day indeed that, that bird has seen her last charlie." he said in a sorrowful tone. Truth be told a pilots Viper was his prized possession. Samuel couldn't help but think that the only way a viper should be retired is if she was outdated or couldn't be put back together.

[Samantha Casey]

Samantha stirred, woken abruptly by the impact of her own nightmares at 0330 hours. At least it was better than 0200 hours. Sam sucked in a breath as if immerging from a deep pool of water gasping for air. Her hazel eyes sprang open wide, her pupils dilated in an effort to adjust to the darkness. She blinked against the pitch blackness of her bunk for a moment trying to eras the scenes of explosions and splintering pieces of metal that had once been her brother’s viper which seemed to echo in the darkness, but they would never truly disappear, those memories, now nightmares, had been seared in the back of her mind.

Sweat beaded on her skin like tiny jeweled reminders of the events that would forever plague her. She sat up quickly, pushing her covers off as if perhaps that would rid her of what had happened, again. With a shaky breath she ran a hand through her hair. Her back slumped forward, her chin against her chest. Within the confines of her bunk she appeared crestfallen, lesser than the sharp, fiery pilot she was outside of it. Lost, even. With the curtains closed it provided her some semblance of privacy. That little bit was enough, enough for her to relax to some degree so long as she stayed quiet. Luckily she was fairly good at that when she wanted to be. Without another sound except for a slow steady inhale and the sweeping noise her fingers made as they brushed through her hair once more she lifted her gaze to the opposite wall of her bunk distilling that determined, hardened expression in her eyes.

Most everyone on the Shadowhawks Squadron had a guard of some sort. Samantha Casey was no exception, but hers was perhaps less obvious than some. In fact hers was so subtle no one but Drake Wolfe knew she even had one. Everyone thought she was the carefree pilot without any sort of guard and fairly ambiguous boundaries at that and yet not so ambiguous that she appeared completely uninhibited such as Tati, her guard clearly showing itself in the reverse role of say someone such as Vik’s more obvious one. Sam appeared to be utterly nonchalant about the whole thing. No one but Drake had known Samantha prior to the Hyperion. Not even Chris Wilson knew everything that had happened. The events of her younger brother’s death were on a need to know basis, and even he wasn’t need to know. It was the one comfort Drake had given Samantha. At least, she had liked to think it was he who had kept that little detail private.

Throwing off her covers completely she peeled off her uniformed sleep wear and slipped into her workout sweats and undershirt. Pulling on her running shoes she slung her legs over the side of her bed, sliding back the curtain as she did so. The quarters were quiet with everyone still slumbering. She scraped her hair back into a manageable ponytail before hopping lightly down from her top bunk and landed like a cat with only the softest of thumbs. She glanced back at the only person it might have woken. Chris appeared to be asleep like the dead.

Sam ran for an hour around the Battlestar before sneaking quietly into her quarters again, gathered her things, and headed to the showers. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there. Her hands pressed against the wall letting the hot water wash over her hair and run down her back, the scenes still haunting her like unwelcomed fireworks going off in her mind, until someone’s voice wrenched her back into reality, “Oi, Casey, don’t take up all the hot water will you,” she could hear the voice from behind the curtain. “Yeah, yeah,” was her delayed response. “Alright hold your horses, some of us actually like getting clean for a change and prefer not to stink up the briefing room with their stench unlike some people,” she teased back with a slowly forming cheeky smile at the wall as she began to wash her hair, all of which was met by a few choice curse words from the other pilot.

When she had dressed into another undershirt and pair of sweats ready for the usual daily routine and returned to the quarters at 0500 hours everyone else was rising. Well most everyone. Chris and Vik were still in their cots and no one it seemed was waking them up. Sam continued to towel dry her hair and gave a small nod to Tyler, Phaeton, Cronus, Tati, and that guy Leon and a few others who still seemed a bit groggy. She brushed her hair, put it up into a proper bun this time and lay on her bunk she decided to write a letter to her father back home. It had been on her mind for a while but it was something she hadn’t done.

The pen hit the parchment a few times. Some words were scribbled down and then scratched out again. Like Tati she preferred hand writing letters. This was however always seemed a bit more difficult. The death of her brother had placed a strain on the relationship she had with her family. After an hour of waiting and attempting to write, she stuffed the unfinished page under her pillow when Tyler announced that he was leading their morning routine. Samantha, already having run an hour herself—she liked running when no one else was around, she could go at her own pace, sprint when she wanted to and didn’t have anyone in her way or trying to compete with her—she was already warmed up and ready to go. Samantha loved to run. Getting motivated was always difficult but with practice it started to become natural. There was something freeing to Sam about running.

They ran for twenty minutes. It was short compared to her hour long run previous, but Sam didn’t mind she knew there would be weights and other calisthenics to follow. During the run she stayed uncharacteristically silent while she rand behind Ty and Kosta listening to them converse with one another about their time off. Most would probably assume she was simply still groggy from a restless night’s sleep. After the run they began their usual workout which would concentrate on arms and chest. Being a woman and lacking the strength most men had in their upper body, while hers was more focused in her legs like most women, she liked upper body centered days. It was like doing arm balances in yoga, Sam loved arm balances, they made her feel invisible. Not that many people knew she even practiced yoga; she saved that little activity for when no one was around to watch her.

On her way to the briefing room, and after washing her face and brushing her teeth, Sam grabbed some wedges of melon and coffee. She ate them as she walked, not wanting to be late. At 0650 hours Samantha Casey was suited up and sat in the front of the Squadron Briefing room as a few more filed in. They were meeting with the Chief and the Chief was never late. If you were late when the Chief was speaking, gods help you. The new bright eyed cadet took a seat eagerly beside her. Her gaze shifted toward him slightly without turning her head then returned her attention back to the empty podium with a small smirk on her face.

When the Chief entered she sat up a little straighter in her chair at attention. Samantha stayed silent but listened when he greeted them all. As he spoke of the new recruit Sam smiled and nudged the man beside her with her elbow subtly. In some things, many things in fact, Sam was as subtle as a hammer, but she could be subtle when she really wanted to be.

Unlike some, more strict believers of Sagittaron, Samantha had liked the idea of CNP. Not that she needed the advanced HUD elements, improved targeting, enhanced scanners, and more easily operated electronic countermeasures. She could fly her viper just fine without them. She didn’t however like the idea that nuggets could be turned into ace pilots with the flick of a switch. To be honest, she didn’t believe that was even possible, no matter how easy the tech made the flying seem. When it came to battle a nugget could never match an ace in that kind of experience. War was deadly, dangerous and a high caliber of pressure, something one could never know until they experienced it. A flick of a switch was not going to give them that no matter how many times they flipped it.

That small part of her inside somewhere, that sliver that remained burning with ambition relished the idea of scoring in a higher tier. Though no one would ever know it by her reaction, she shrugged noncommittally to the Chief’s explanation. Sam didn’t believe that they should be relying extensively on such a program or tech to fly. Skill was necessary. She knew that more than anyone. War wasn’t fair. You couldn’t plan what was going to happen out there, you just had to react, and hopefully the action you made was a good one. Sam had always had a ‘feel’ for flying. It was something unexplainable. It felt nautral to her. That didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted to try out the new fancy tech of course.

Samantha perked up when the Chief mentioned the games. Her hazel eyes hopeful for something new, but there was nothing, she slumped back a little in her chair. A fond smile lingered over her features nonetheless as she listened to the Chief’s description. The beginning was an impressive display of military force. It made Sam feel powerful somehow. As if perhaps she was somehow invincible. Sam thought of her viper as the Chief spoke. Out there in the black it felt as if nothing could touch her.

Finally the Chief mentioned actual flying. Immediately Samantha’s posture changed. She appeared more alert. Playfulness danced in her eyes once more at the idea of actually being able to launch her viper. Hanger launches, tube launches, didn’t make a difference to her. It was the flying that mattered. She smirked at Tyler’s comment about visitation. Everyone in the room could probably empathize with the loss Tyler must have been feeling at his bird being retired. For Sam her viper was like one her own limbs. If she lost number 12 she would certainly feel as though she was missing a piece of herself. Twisting her body around in her seat she nodded to Tyler to get his attention, folding her arms over the back of her seat, and after Phaeton had said his peace, “I’ll lend a hand if you need one, or two for that matter,” she offered casually. It was a thing universally acknowledged that Samantha and Tyler could be at each other’s throats at times, but when it counted Sam had his back as she hoped he had hers. Not that she would ever miss an opportunity to banter with him, or slyly make sarcastic jokes sometimes at his expense.

[Tyler Tremaine]

Before they had gone into much on the subject of Two-Six, Samuel Lion, AKA; Adonis the Bagel King, interjected with a rather serious mixture of questions and points about the CNP that were all, quite frankly, far more important. He and the Chief were quick in their points, and then the boss got back to the personal variation of this business.

"Chief, with the retirement of Viper Two-Six, we will need Griffs replacement to be up to snuff, by the time we go into the war games, it would be unfair to disadvantage him... like that." Striker asked with with a roundabout statement. Ty almost wished he hadn't, it would have been easier to not have clear orders on when or what he was to do in regards to making alterations to a Viper that was technically suppose to be taken back to regulations. It was an old trick that Ty had learned early on in his career, if orders were unclear, then there was some wiggle room, room for interpretation, you could easily have misunderstood your options. What was the old saying? Better to ask forgiveness than permission...

The chief answered Striker, but Ty was distracted by a nudge from Adonis and didn't get to hear the answer to Wilson's query... which was actually a slip up, that he didn't intend to correct. "A museum is no place for a Viper. They crave the skies as much as we do. It is a sad day indeed that, that bird has seen her last charlie." Ty smirked a bit, as he recognised the quote from NSWAK. They used to say that when pilots washed out, or trusted training Vipers were decommissioned. Interesting that Adonis chose this time to rebirth the saying.

At any rate, the Chief got around to Tyler again, this time addressing his smart mouthed comments. "Visitation hours are Monday to Friday ten hundred to eighteen hundred hours, excepting Colonial holidays. Children under five enter at no cost. 15% military discount if you show your ID." The Chief joked with a face that Tyler didn't easily recognize even after knowing the man roughly seven years total. Perhaps Ty was just paranoid around Hoffman, but he didn't normally joke with Tyler, and yet, he had a quip to his tone that wasn't ordinarily there. He seemed to change his tune after that, and added, "She's in a better place, Griffin, and will end up outliving all the rest of the birds on the deck. Before you start thinking about kissing your sidearm, take a stroll to storage room C7. That might brighten your day a bit."

Ty was stunned. Hoffman was more than a Chief, that much was assured. But. He hadn't expected the man to have already gone to bat for him. SM-C7 was the storage room for his Viper Pad, which in true military fashion, was titled SP-C7. Or, Storage Pad C7. In other words, each individual Viper or Raptor 'booth' had its own nomenclature, and each had it's own ship's locker. They were about the size of the average walk in bathroom. Which was interesting as Tyler could have stuffed most of his modifications in a space that large, in fact, he might have put them all in such a locker, had he known this was coming. But to know that Hoffman had gone to the trouble of even doing anything to alleviate the heartache was kind of a big deal. The Chief of the deck taking the time to rip illegal alterations to military hardware off his Viper, and store them for him? Yeah, he'd owed the Chief a long list of favors before, as Hoffman had turned a blind eye to many a shady deals, and now he owed him just that much more. Ty strained his face to keep the excitement off. He'd have to fly her straight up one good time today before he'd have time to open C7 up, but he was fairly sure this was his birthday for the decade.

"We gonna put her back together?" Helios asked quietly as Tyler concluded what kind of whiskey it was that he'd seen Hoff drinking last Colonial day. Ty nodded to him and then said, "As soon as we can boss. I got the early detail after the briefing, but after that, I'm gonna talk to Chief Alexander, see what we can do."

Slim Sexy turned around in a manner that screamed, "Who cares who see's me," and also included her aid. “I’ll lend a hand if you need one, or two for that matter,” Tyler thanked her also, and nodded his own approval of his squadron. You'd swear he'd lost a child. But in earnest, these weren't some car club he saw on saturdays, this was the Viper squadron. The elite. The top guns of the fleet. And the biggest island of misfit toys that Wilson could scrounge up. It was safe to say, that leaving his squadron with idle hands, was a very dangerous thing to do... caged animals indeed.

"Thank you Chief." He also looked around to his Squadron who were all at least stealing glances, if not straight looking at him. Griffin sat up straighter, and cleared his throat. "Thank you Hawks. And it's an honor for her to be immortalized as a monument Sir," He lied to Hoffman. Not at him. To him, there was a difference. Ty meant no disrespect with this, he simply wouldn't go off on a tyrant about the filthy, double dealing admiralty and their greedy, money hungry, backdooring politics. Yet. One more reason to need men like Bainbridge in power, so they could put an end to crap like this. A warbird like Two-Six in a damn museum. What a perversion of the natural order.

[Fredrick Hoffman]

Next to speak up was a lieutenant junior grade that Hoffman didn't recognize, one of the new transfers. He went on to express his concern about the CNP as well as personal modifications. "No, lieutenant." Hoffman replied once the pilot had finished speaking. "You did not hear me correctly. I said 'it was decided that it would be an unfair advantage for any vessel to have the program' and 'the CNP will be installed on all ships after the games end." He looked up at the man. "There is no disadvantage because no one is using the CNP during the games. Installations have been postponed and those few with CNP already installed have been instructed to turn the program off for the duration of the war games."

"You also did not hear me on the second count." he continued. "I said that no pilots are to perform modifications without deckhand support and supervision. I also said that my men would be on hand to assist in tuning your Vipers to the specifications preferred." He thought about saying something about Viper pilots doing their damn jobs and leaving the deckhands to do theirs, or not wanting scorch marks all over his deck where some Viper blew his bird up after routing his Tylium lines in the wrong direction. Instead he settled on, "Repairs, maintenance, and modifications are my responsibility. Within reason we can do nearly anything, but I will not clear a Viper to fly unless I know that it is operating properly and safely." Hopefully that would stop the griping about nearly non-existent hindrances. Every pilots wanted to pretend to be a deckhand at times but almost none of them were qualified to do any work.

Fredrick turned next to address Captain Wilson's concerns with regards to the retired Viper. "As I said." he explained. "Everyone, Lieutenant Tremaine included, has six days to familiarize or re-familiarize themselves with their Vipers and to put in their service requests for fine tuning. As always, every effort will be made to keep the air wing running at 100% and manpower will be allocated to assist with the new Viper 26." After a very brief pause he added, "But we are not miracle workers. It would be folly to think years of various minor adjustments and improvements could be replicated in less than a week, but we will accomplish what is possible in the time allotted." The Chief told them straight with both the good and the bad. The deck was full of professionals that would work hard and do their jobs, not unicorns and fairy dust that could work magic. He ignored the underlying implication that the deck gang wouldn't get the Viper "up to snuff" in time. The air wing was going to be at its best possible state, no exceptions and no excuses.

Following that, many of the other pilots poured their emotional support on Tyler and pledged physical support with getting his bird back to 100%. As that finally died down, Tyler then thanked the Chief and his fellow pilots. He even managed to gracefully accept what had happened and claim that it indeed was indeed an honor. "It was an honor to have 26 on this deck." Hoffman replied quickly. It was all he said, and it was all he was going to say on the subject.

[Tatiana Wisla]

Like the others Tatiana had been woke up by Ty to join the morning work out. Though it wasn't uncommon for her to have those long nights it had been Vik and Chris who had both managed to have their respective long nights this time. Not always off beat for Chris and with leave ending it was likely a drunken night at the shipyard getting his thrills one last time.

Fox on the other hand was not the type to stay out to late and over sleep. Tatiana could only assume it was spent talking to Atlas till the wee hours of the morning. It wasn't like Tatiana hadn't done that a time or two with Row when he could find the free time for it. Once those who were alive enough to get out there they began their run. Tatiana, like the others was dressed in her military issue work outs. She took her place behind Tyler and Kosta keeping pace with the new guy as they ran, not that she said a word the whole time. She was small, compact and it took her full focus to keep up with the guys that had half a foot or so in legs on her. When it was all over she quickly changed and washed her face off, then was off to breakfast shortly behind Ty.

The selection was almost overwhelming as it usually was at a military breakfast so Tatiana stuck to her norm. There was little in the young woman's life that one could consider normal, so few routines that her breakfast ritual was one of her stable points. Two pieces of toast one wheat one white, butter on both, lightly. A full mug of hot tea to accompany the toast. Then it was on to three pieces of bacon, precisely picked, not those half pieces that the military tried to pawn off as actual full slices of bacon. That wonderful bacon can't be alone though it needs to have a lightly cooked egg, sunny side up, an orange, and a bowl of grits to go with it. Once all that was finished, and finished in military fashion, it was time to move on to a cup of coffee as she raced to the briefing room before she was late.

She raced in and joined those who had beat her and waited as the chief. She quickly pulled her note pad from her breast pocket and set it on the little table in front of her and began to flip through it for an open page, finally coming to the conclusion that it was just as out of space to write as it was the last time. She quickly duh in to another pocket to produce a second pad with room left in it and began to take notes. She jotted everything down as they went through it all. Just like the others she was shocked at the news of viper two-six. She wanted to yell 'What the Frak?' but somehow through all her cloudy judgement she managed to refrain, but it out of concern for Ty or just straight of fear of Chief Hoffman. That man though technically 'lower ranking' then her scared the crap out of her. He controlled the whole deck and all the knuckle draggers, that meant her life was in their hands, his hands. Anyone like that should be feared.

When it was all said and done and the floor was open to questions Tatiana patted Ty on the shoulder as if to show her condolences. "Chief, I know that Colonel Bainbridge is on the ship to run the show do we know what that means for media spectral on board. I am sure I am not the only one who isn't to happy about that idea."