This Is My Blowtorch

The call to attention is answered by a quick "As you were," but serves its purpose of making known he arrival of a higher ranking officer. No more goofing off, or at least cut back the cursing! Pinkerton makes some quiet conversations with the nearest petty officer, who points out the Wren's presence. The Lieutenant makes his way over, clearing his throat a few paces behind her. "Mister McConnell," he calls out over the sound of her work.

Kate is knelt in some leaking water, probably up to her knees by now when she's crouching down but she's doing her very, very best to seal the hole in the room so they can get the engines back up. She's covered with a proper welders mask, having no wish to add more injuries to the array of burns across her body already. She pauses in the weilding of the controlled fire, turning towards him and pushing up her mask…"Sir?"

Pinkerton carries, as always, his clipboard of reports and missives. "At ease," he responds, taking half a step back from the idled blowtorch. "How is the recovery going?" His eyes dart down to the seal she's working on, then quite slowly make their way back up Kate's uniform.

Kate carefully reaches the patch on the front of her left arm up, the one part of her not bandaged, and wipes it across her face and eyes to push away the sweat that comes with working the blowtorch. She nods slowly…"Radio and Radar are up… but naew that 'is is nae flooded and since the pumps bae working, figure best tae try and seal the leaks here an' maybe get the engine back up. Sometime today. Hopefully… water is comin' in as quick as we can bae pumpin' it out, though.

Pinkerton blinks rapidly as he tries to follow her lilting accent, his head tilting by degrees in concentration. "A-ah, yes, well…" The XO takes his pen and scribbles a few notes, then offers an awkward smile as his head rights itself. "Very good, that. You seem to have it all under control. Ah, and yet…" The man tucks his board under his arm. "Your own safety, you see… I meant, rather…" he stammers off.

Kate just looks confused. It seems she cannot much understand his gentlemanly ways rather like he is have issues with her accent. She carefully folds down her weilder's mask across her pale features again and she turns back to the patch, carefully running a line of wet metal across the middle edge of the patch. The bottom is finished, it was the first thing she did, before the water rose over it again. She yells to him, her accent even thicker, as she weilds the metal. "I think I got a bi' of time baefer the water gets that high! 'm fine, sair! As safe as anyone may bae on this hulk!"

Pinkerton crouches down, lifting the back of his clipboard to block any resulting splashes and sparks from his face. "The doctor tells me you took some serious burns, Mister McConnell," he calls out over the broiling water and hissing metal. "You know there are plenty of crewmen who could relieve you, yes?"

Kate shrugs a bit, "I donnae see them here… I am here, sae I bae doin' the work, sir. The whole ship is hurtin', we got work tae be done everywhere. This is my blowtorch. There bae many like it, but this one is mine, and I bae usin' it!" Kate responds firmly, almost a touch manically. This really is the one thing keeping her sane, keeping her out of the fear and being overwhelmed from it all. Work.

"IDON'TNEEDWELDING!!" Pinkerton yelps, splashing back away from the woman and her torch in instinctual fear. Brave men run in his family, but not in the usual meaning. "Yes, well, that is to say!" The XO takes a bit to steady himself and rise up, groaning at the dampness left on his bum. Knew he shouldn't have crouched down. "See that you take your breaks, then! I'll ah, will be off, if you need nothing else?"

Kate kills the blow torch after a moment, letting that part set as she turns her head and looks back to the now dampened XO. She nods firmly to him, "Aye, where there is time, I will take a break. Nae… jus' hit the pumps on again. If ye could make'em go faster, tha' be great, but I doubt ye bae a miracle worker." Where the hell is Pearce when he's needed! Probably hiding somewhere in the bowels of his poor, dying ship.

Pinkerton straightens up, looking as dignified as he can now manage. "Madam," the man declares in stiff British fashion, "I shall give the pumps a most severe talking-to!" He turns smartly, apparently not above self-parody… then again, how could you be

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