hallelujahpilot: (toss it back)
[personal profile] hallelujahpilot
part ii

The Marines have taken over the cafeteria.

They do this, sometimes. For one thing, they are generally the biggest, and always the fittest people on base, and they wear their physicality like force-field. However, the main reason they have taken over the cafeteria is far less metaphorical. When they are in this mood, they tend to get rowdy, and then drunk, and then violent, and most of Hell's Gate's residents knew enough that they didn't want to stick around once they'd finished dinner.

As soon as the Marines had started toasting their fallen comrades, that's when most people had cleared off.

Out of the corner of her eye, Trudy notices that Augustine, at least, has stuck around; holding court with her Avatar drivers looking like junkies and the other, more adventurous scientists merely looking crazed, like wilderness men taken inside and told they can go out tomorrow. She can also see Quaritch, at the other side of the cafeteria. Trudy knows why he's here, and it's not really for the company or the solidarity – the Marines are in a Mood, and the potential for violence is crackling through the grief and simmering rage. There have been a few tussles already, close blows broken up by friends before anyone had to step in. Like with Augustine, Trudy does her best to ignore him.

It's all you can do, in a small company town like Hell's Gate. Pretend to ignore, pretend not to mind, get along-

A shoulder bumps into her arm with a laughingly concerned, “C'mon, Trudes, you're not about to pull a Carpenter on me, are ya?” The bump makes her spill most of her drink.

“No,” she tells Dakura, and takes a defiant gulp of the rest of her glass ('today's special, Engine Cleaner') . “And you owe me another drink.”

Izzie Dakura pulls a face as Trudy flicks the spilled alcohol from her tank-top and onto the other woman. But before they can argue, there is a question from the other end of the pilots' table which makes them stop.

“What's a Carpenter?” Liam Dante asks.

“...oh my god,” Trudy laughs. “You are such a Fucking New Guy, you know that?”

Everyone knows what happened to Carpenter. FNGs two seconds on base know what happened to Carpenter. What happened to Carpenter was Pandora, and then Carpenter grabbed his gun and happened to a large number of other people before a few dozen well-placed rounds happened to him.

Rolling her eyes and letting Farzan and Myers give the specialist the run-down, Trudy, clambers over the bench to go and get another drink. It's not that far to walk, but she does have to move by where the geo-techs are. Geologists (at least, those more involved in mining) and the actual miners themselves, sitting around the edges of the science corner. There have been more than a few looks of contempt, snatches of muttered complaints from them, which Trudy has ignored. Ignored, ignoring, not like the others who started throw punches and had to be pulled back, ignoring.

She ignores, until there is one of those hushes in the crowd and she's hit with “-just like the time that nigger bitch was killed last year.”

McKinley's words echo in sudden, awful silence.

And she knows exactly who he is referring to.

Slowly, Trudy turns around to face the geologist.

“What did you say?”

He stares at her, mouth curling as he repeats in that crystal-clear, diamond-sharp Ivy League voice of his, “Indgrid Schimdt was just another nigger bitch.”

Trudy takes a deep breath and

(It's not just John McKinley being a biot.
It's John McKinley being a bigot today and it's
all the petty insults about idiots with guns by folk who had enough fucking money to go to school and it's
the fact that she spent her afternoon picking up pieces of her friends and it's
every. damn. time the Marines die for the ungrateful bastards and it's
the fact that only person who has said god damn thank you is a guy in freaking Milliways and it's-
)


slowly exhales.

“Take it back, McKinley, and we'll walk away.”

He could. Swallow his pride, be mocked for being backed down by some shortass Spic bitch in a uniform, but he could back away.

He won't.

He doesn't.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you, you-”

Trudy looks at him cooly, and remembers Ing Schimdt's brilliant smile, and she remembers being unable to do anything but scream Ing's name before she was killed, and between one breath and the next, Trudy grabs the nearest bottle and slams it into McKinley's jaw.

There is another frozen second swallowed up by McKinley's muffled scream before someone grabs Trudy – she's too drunk to react fast enough to resist – and throws her back against the nearest table.

The pilots' table.

Even as Trudy lashes out, her combat boot crunching into the groin of the man who threw her, Dakura is on her feet and lunging towards the guy, too. And Farzan is on his feet, and so is Dante, and Myers has hauled up Dr Stratton by his shirt, and Trudy does, actually, have enough presense of mind to think, Quaritch is going to fucking kill me.

But she catches her breath, and as Rodney tries to pull Dakura off Carmichael (or maybe it's someone else), she lunges at him and tackles the miner to the ground.

Trudy Chacon is just a little too far gone to be assed thinking of consequences right now.
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Trudy Chacon

November 2011

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