Deck Chief Jason “Diggers” Mieczyslawa
EDF Atlas, Crew Quarters
If there was one thing that sleeping in a big, metal box did to you, it was make you a light sleeper. Especially the technical minded folks. On the
Atlas, absolute silence was generally bad. Silence meant that something wasn’t functioning right, that a power core or a propulsion jet wasn’t functioning as planned. Silence meant tension in the core workers and shock among the medical staff. Silence meant that the Marines were too stunned to return fire and the CIC were praying to the gods. In essence, silence meant that the proverbial shit was about to hit the metaphorical fan.
Because of this, Jason didn’t sleep well unless there was that ever-present hum that reverberated through his bunk as he slipped into unconsciousness, even when he was on shore leave, tucked between the sheets. It was too still; he much preferred to be vibrating slightly, because vibration meant calm. It meant that all was right with the world, and that he could catch some much needed Z’s.
Such were his thoughts as his head hit the pillow.
In his dreams, there was thunder and anger, non-distinguished shapes floating through the air. A woman’s manicured finger pointed down at him, flicking him on the nose. An angel descended through the heavens, flames licking her back as she screamed, plummeting towards the earth. He wanted to reach out and save her. He wanted to pull her back towards him. Yelling rose from dozens of voices, and another, louder, explosive thunder clap shook through him, vibrating his body until his naked torso hit the cool metal of his cabin, and he was suddenly wide awake.
Very awake.
His prothesis was slapped on and tightened, his uniform shoved over trembling arms and sweat-soaked skin, his toolbelt hung limply from his waist. The floor was still vibrating with aftershocks of the explosion as he moved on auto-pilot, unaware of his surroundings, unaware of anything as he made the trip down the service elevator, punching the button with a numbness he hadn’t felt since his early days on the Atlas. He saw crew members running by on mute, the thuds of regulation shoes on the floors not reaching from his ears to his brain. Something rendered him sad - so impossibly sad, though he couldn’t quite define what it was.
The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside the hall, his footsteps carrying him around the corner, towards the flight deck. There, two workers were spraying a small welding tool, forcing the doors apart. He stopped abruptly, the belt of tools that had been hanging from his waist falling to the floor with a muffled thump. His eyes, skittish and wide, took in the scene - a burn victim, two men struggling with another, a woman howling at the ceiling - all without audio. All in black and white.
He closed his eyes, counting.
One.
He had dealt with nothing like this before. Nothing like this had even been recorded; not on the tests, at least.
Two.
He mentally reviewed the flight deck. There were very few flammable devices in his little haven of the
Atlas - at least, there were a lack of devices that could explode unstably. There were plenty of things around the deck that could catch fire. Which meant that this was intentional. Someone had brought the fire starters to him. And he’d missed it.
Three.
He was going to be sick. He felt the bile rising from his stomach, threatening to spew out his mouth at the sight of the crisis. Nerves paralyzed him, fraying his feet and adding twitches to his hands.
Four.
He inhaled, exhaled. Inhaled, exhaled. His heart rate slowed, the panic began to ebb away, and his last exhale was one of calm, certainty, tranquility.
Five.
Okay.
He opened his eyes and was moving as the audio kicked in, the screams of the pained and panicked, the grunting and the shouted orders. A marine was attempting to use a welder on the door, and making the situation far worse than it was. The melted, twisted metal of the blast doors made grating sounds as they attempted to open, screeching against each other. The marine seemed to think that heat + metal = good things - a moronic assumption that had Jason grinding his teeth in frustration. He hiked his toolbelt back onto his waist, clicking the buckle into place.
Let’s go to work.His prosthesis clanked against the metal floors, his arm shot out and grabbed the marine by the scruff of his uniform, hauling him backwards.
“What the fuck!?” The kid shouted, twisting and almost putting the welding torch into Jason’s eyes. Jason responded with a prompt rabbit punch, putting all of his considerable size and weight into the jab, sending the marine crashing deckward, the torch turning off as soon as contact was severed. Kicking the tool aside, he drew plasma cutters from his tool belt, and checked the battery.
“Two people, right here.” His voice was loud and clear, free of the phlegm and gruffness that it usually held. Two techs moved to take up a position, bracing their weight against the blackened metal.
He hefted the cutter, igniting it with a flick of his thumb, and pressed it against one of the bolts, a clumsy and inefficient method of opening the blast doors. He remembered, back when they were in a condition to ask, that he had submitted a request to upgrade the system, but the request was denied in the favor of better food for the crew. He had argued that a faster door would mean increased efficiency, so that the crew may not
have to eat as much, and why the hell was the crew eating anyways when they could be working?
It hadn’t flown. Coincidentally, Ramirez still didn’t have a sense of humor.
With a firm push, the lancing heat between the prongs of the cutter sliced through the bolt, and with another firm sweep, the second one gave way. The automatic supporting system that was attempting to open the doors was severed with a simple slice of the gears and motors that were tugging at the doorway, and suddenly, the steel blast door was no longer supported. Switching off the cutter, Jason hobbled to where the two techs were holding the door, and added his weight to theirs.
“Heave!”
Another few bodies added their weight to the door, and with a mournful cry of metal against metal, the door collapsed inwards. It swung like a great door before collapsing against the floor, leaving a great, searing gouge in the once-shiny metal with a drawn-out cry. Jason didn’t waste any time; the deck chief was hobbling onto the scene, wading through techs that were standing in shock, staring at the scorched ground and twisted metal. At least a dozen bodies were about which he could see, in various states of injury.
Turning in a full circle, he appraised the group of people that were still staring, some crying, others just pale faced and tight lipped. He knew that he wasn’t the highest ranking officer here - was that one of the Marine Captains? - but there seemed to be a distinct lack of stepping up among his superiors.
He tried not to let them see his shaking hands.
“First priorty; the trapped bodies and the fires. This half of the room, get fire blankets, extinguishers, any water you can find, and start putting out the birds. The rest of you, get the people out of the flight deck, out into the hall, and lay ‘em down. Any medical staff should stand by to help them if need be.
“Once you’re don yer task, we need to check the birds for damage. What we can salvage; what we can’t.” He hated uttering those words; to Digger, a piece of junk was just an untapped resource.
He blinked at them, taking in the lack of movement as the thirty or so eyes stared back at him. He sighed, and then clapped his hands, the sound splitting the air of the deck.
“Get to work, ladies!” He roared. There was movement as the crew poured out to their respective tasks, arms laden with equipment - medical and non-medical. He turned back and joined those looking for survivors, starting with a female form trapped underneath a piece of wing - itself scorched black and unrecognizable - from an Angel. If he knew his babies - and he did - then Marissa was no more.
He crouched down, awkwardly scraping his false leg to check on the woman, looking directly into her face-
Oh god. Blades.
He moved like a man possessed, flopping onto his back and removing the hard steel of his prosthetic leg in a single, sudden movement. When the leg was firmly in hand, he balanced awkwardly on one knee, shoving his false limb underneath the piece of wing that had the woman trapped. Looking around, he found another piece of twisted metal and fit that under the false leg, testing the makeshift lever. Satisfied with the amount of leverage he got, he pushed down on the end of the leg with all of his weight, feeling the rising panic of the situation. He hadn’t even really had a chance to talk to her; she was just the new girl, the pilot who overcompensated and was probably here to abuse his staff about the upgrades to her bird. He pressed harder, leaning his full upper torso on the false limb, watching with satisfaction as the wing plate finally - finally - gave in to his demand. With a groan, the plate lifted enough for her to be dragged out.
Without needing to call out, a man was there, his uniform one of a pilot. With efficiency that hinted at his discipline, Blades was dragged out from underneath the wing and flipped onto her back. With a grunt, Digger dropped the leg, scrabbling on hands and knee over to her.
“Looks like this is row-mah’s wingman.” The pilot said, his hands hovering over the prone woman, as if scared to touch her lest he break her further.
Yelling filled the room as Jason reached a hand to her throat, fumbling for a pulse. It was there, but it was weak - she’d taken a heavy hit. As he struggled onto his one knee, he looked at the pilot, taking in his rumpled appearance, and the bunny ears above his left breast pocket.
“Thanks for the help,” Digger said, his voice low. “Can you help me get her to the hallway? We need to get the medical staff to take a look at her.”
The pilot had the gall to laugh. “Please, chief. You’re not even in a position to move her. I’ll take care of it; you keep doing what you’re doing.” The man’s eyes strayed to Jason’s bad leg, his gaze falling on the folded cloth of his jumpsuit pant leg.
Jason’s nostrils flared, his temper flaring with them. “I can help you-”
“Nope. This one’s all me.”
Jason growled, and conceded to the point. He took a moment to gaze around the deck, averting his gaze from the man lifting Blades into a fireman’s carry and making his way back to the hall. Most of the bodies had been cleared away efficiently; to his relief, most of them seemed to be standing on their own and joining the rest of the crew with the larger of the fires. In the corner, three techs worked frantically over a single female body; one was compressing her chest while another was wrapping a cloth around her bleeding left leg. Similar scenes hovered over the remaining bodies, strewn about the flight deck. Over the sound of the quiet roaring of fires and the ever present
hum of the flight deck, the panicked shouts and grunts of the crew reigned supreme.
“Chief?”
Jason looked up at the voice, his gaze meeting one of the better of his techs, Holland. He was holding a crutch in one hand, the ruined leg in the other. Jason grabbed at the base of the crutch, hauling himself to his feet with an unsteady but confident lurch, managing to twist himself around to face his crew member.
“Thanks.” He mumbled, noting the gash above Holland’s eye and the haunted look in his green pools. They’d all be losing sleep because of this one.
With his free hand, Digger grabbed his prosthesis from Holland, lifting it up to the light. The joint hung off at an awkward angle, the ankle was dangling from a single bolt, and the metal of the calf and thigh both had a large dent in it from the strain. With an unsatisfied grunt, he tossed it aside, and began hobbling towards the wreckage of an Angel, smoldering in the dimming light. As he moved, Holland kept pace with him, and Diggers decided then and there that he’d found himself a new assistant.
“Anything damaged that you’ve seen?”
“Re-capturing doors are shot.”
“How badly?”
“Five days.” The technician replied. All of Diggers’ crew had stopped using specifics when talking about damaged equipment; their deck chief had relegated them to giving the best assessment of the situation based on the number of days it would take them to fix it. It saved time, and nobody in the brass wanted to hear about disruptor fields and magnetic cohesion anyways.
“Shit,” Diggers responded, approaching the crippled bird. At first glance, the Angel was completely irreparable.
Jason had long since stopped taking equipment at first glance.
“Stephanie,” He breathed, running his hand along her wing. “Holland, I want you to do me a favor. Head up the decks and grab every damn doctor on this boat and bring them down here, stat. We have a lot of wounded, and I don’t want them working; they’ll bleed all over the equipment.”
Holland smirked. “Aye, chief.”
“I mean it,” the older man said, climbing onto the wing of Stephanie, moving onto her back with a balance that came from years of crutch practice. “I don’t give a shit if the doctor’s in the middle of saving Ramirez herself. You find a way to get them down here. If they shake you off, you make them understand the situation. I need every available man. Without those doors, we can’t launch patrols. Without patrols, we’re all dead.”
He was preaching to the choir, but Holland hung on every word. “Aye, chief.” First assistant to the Deck chief. The kid’s going places.
As the youth scampered off, Diggers dropped to one knee, using the crutch as a balancing rod as he began to dig around in a spare panel of Stephanie’s back. Prying it open, he ran his hands over the smooth metal that the panel unveiled, his touch reverent, gentle.
“Easy, girl,” he muttered, both to the machine and to himself, amidst the cries of pain of the deck. In the corner, one of the technicians threw his gloves in frustration as the female form he’d been compressing gave up the fight for life. Across the deck, a marine and a pilot pulled a charred skeleton from the ashes of a pile of cable. Amidst the chaos, Diggers stroked his beautiful bird, continuing to whisper, calming himself, the fighter, the deck.
“We’re all gonna be okay.”