PHD #152: A Sweet Thing
A Sweet Thing
Summary: In an attempt to do something sweet, Trask seeks out the strippers from Aquarian Pete's. (That is not a euphemism, even though one of the dancers is called Candy.)
Date: 28 Jul 2041 AE
Related Logs: Those involving Penelope being irradiated.
Trask NPC 
Hangar Deck - Starboard
Post-Holocaust Day: #152
This Hangar Bay is filled with boxes, crates and other various supplies that are needed throughout the ship. Most have been moved to one end and lashed with tarps to keep them out of the way. The place has gone from extra ship storage on one end and the ability to house over 450 people on the other end. Whatever could be made into cots has been set up like a huge barracks. Some areas have been made more presentable with a few items that belong to the person holding onto their small area in this world.

Marines guard this area 24/7 and food is brought in cafeteria style, feeding people out of vats and buckets as they line up with their plates. One area has been tarped off to the side, that holds canvas showers and sinks. The 'Head' in this area has to be cleaned daily since it is a temporary military bathroom setup, due to there is no way to flush it out through pipes.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

It's chaos in the refugee camp as usual, disused containers and makeshift tents, stacks of crates and other improvised dividers creating a maze of nooks and crannies — some of which are the twisting thoroughfares of this dystopian village, some of which are people's ersatz homes. It's the Colonial Navy's ship, but this is unquestionably the civilians' domain, and navigating one's way through it requires some assistance. Whether Trask is the type to stop for directions or employ one of the industrious little urchins that hang about on the outskirts, offering to show visitors around for a bag of candy or a pack of smokes, Aquarian Pete's girls are to be found hard to starboard and slightly aft, as the crow flies, the three women inhabiting a military surplus tent barely wide enough for their cots, and too low to stand upright in. Outside, Candy — a leggy but rather hard-looking blonde who's never without her false eyelashes and violently red lipstick — is hanging clothes to dry. Indigo and Desire are nowhere to be seen, perhaps sleeping in.

Lieutenant Trask is a man on a mission. Having just concluded the post-flight check of his latest round of CAP, he moseys from the port hangar deck to the starboard, leaving behind the realm of stick jockeys and knuckledraggers in favor of Civilianville. For once, it isn't for a social visit to Helios and the other thugs in Doc Barron's employ, although he does make the requisite detour to drop off a few packs of cigarettes and see how they're faring. Truth be told, it's from that rough-and-tumble crew that he got his initial intel. Big Cubits has a knack for knowing about these things, being a long-time patron of such arts, although he never had the pleasure of shaking his money at the money-makers of Candy, Indigo, or Desire.

Had the ECO actually mentioned he was seeking the services of the tatas baring trio, he'd undoubtedly be rolling up to the dancers' domicile with a posse. As it stands, the man's flying solo. "So, are the naughty knickers just the work uniform?" he starts in his usual casual way, proffering an open pack of smokes to the lady. An unlit cancer stick already dangles from his lips, adding to whatever bad boy allure there may be in his attitude and sweaty appearance. Tousled hair, killer arms and shoulders covered in beautiful kirituhi, a tank top faintly clinging due to perspiration… chicks dig that, right?

Apparently, this one does. Candy turns, mouth open to deliver a stinging rebuke, looking a little bitchy — as one might if one had to handle the fumbling, slightly drooling attentions of nearly everything with a penis, all the frakking time. It's not that she's hotter than the next chick — she's not bad looking and has a nice bod, but her beauty will never launch a single ship — it's that she used to work the Champagne Room. And that gets around. Anyway, as it happens, Kal Trask isn't the typical loser she has to put down every five minutes — so she blinks. And smiles, flirting those ridiculously long false lashes down at the smokes. "Hey. Thanks, sweetie." She takes a cigarette, smirking, "That would be correct, hot stuff. No chick ever has tottered around in eight-inch frak-me platforms for fun. That's just in porno vids."

It likely does help that Bootstrap doesn't look as though he's actually interested in seeing Candy in naughty knickers… or less than that. With a flick of his thumb, flint is struck and there is light, which is directed to the dancer's cig, should she want to partake now. Either way, he then lights his own, pockets the metallic lighter, and starts puffing away. "Eight-inch? Frak. I knew some of Prince's shit looked retro but those six-inch frak-me platforms in those pornos were adequately absurd. For your sake, I hope you had a good podiatrist." That said, now is as good a time as any to relay, "Lieutenant Kal Trask, and, no, I'm neither a foot doctor nor fetishist."

Candy leans forward for her light, then stands with her hip cocked saucily, one long leg out to the side, on display. She may not be dressed to kill, but she's got the moves. "Well, I guess I'm shit outta luck on both counts, then…" She takes a long drag, exhaling through her nose. "So what can I do you for, Mr…?"

Brown eyes momentarily flick at the leg as it's extended, the look punctuated with an exhalation of smoke. It's not lecherous per se, but he's a man who can appreciate such a sight. "Nonsense," he dismisses her comment, plying the cigarette from betwixt his lips to better converse, attention back on the dancer's face. "There's still plenty of bad luck to be had." Which is worse than being out of luck. "There must be at least 15 creepy people who'd be elated to rub your aching tootsies." Saucy hip, meet sassy tongue. "Lieutenant," Kal then casually corrects, "and seein' that I don't moonlight as either a john or a gigolo, doing me takes a minimum of three nice dates." Beat. "I'm no skank." He does cheekily bat his lashes, however. Twice. "What you can do /for/ me, and what I can do /for/ you, is another matter entirely, semantics aside."

Uh-huh. Candy might not be smart, but she's not dumb. About halfway through his patter, she's getting the message that she won't be spending any time with those legs of her wrapped around this particular lieutenant. By the time he's on about what she can do for him, she's got her hand up and is yapping her fingers at him, smirking. "Yadda yadda yadda. Ohhhhhkay, Hot Stuff, what can we do for each other?" She sighs and sits on a crate, crossing her legs and resting back on one hand.

Those yapping fingers are noticed. "There are better ways for a hand to emulate a mouth," he notes, a puckish gleam in his eyes to match the scampish upward sweep of his lips. So, who knows? Maybe he's not entirely unreceptive to the idea. It just isn't what primarily interests him at this particular moment of time. "Well, Legs," seeing that she never introduced herself, "it's my understanding that, in addition to naughty knickers and 8-inch frak-me platform heels, you ladies tend to wear wigs. I'm wondering what the going rate for one would be."

Candy smirks, but doesn't correct him. Apparently 'Legs' will do. She tosses back her hair and takes another drag of her smoke — then coughs a little, laughing huskily. "You want to buy a wig?" She grins, looking Trask over from top to toes — probably trying to imagine him in drag. "Sure, sweetie. We have wigs. What… uhm…" Snicker. "What's your style? You like 'em long and sexy or sleek and sophisticated?" Then, turning and shouting at the tent, "Indy! Dez! Get out here!"

"I prefer actual hair. Yanno, something that won't come off when I tug it in the throes of passion. This really isn't about me, though," Trask retorts, completely unfazed by the laughter and snickering. "Something longish, brown, and curly would be ideal. Not sure there's much demand for that in your line of work, though, so I just might have to defer to your professional judgment." Another drag from the cigarette.

"The frak, Candy — some of us are tryin' t'sleep up in this bitch…" Out of the tent stumbles a red-headed Amazon in a tiny pink camisole set, a sleeping mask pushed up into the titian tangle of her hair. She's followed by an ebony-skinned woman with large, startlingly light hazel eyes — the shortest of the trio at a mere 5'6" — her hair in corn-row braids, wearing sweats and reading glasses.

"This fella wants to buy a — " Candy begins, but the red-head is already beaming at Trask, sidling close and wrapping herself around his arm. "Well, hello, handsome. I'm Desire…"

"He's not interested," snaps Candy. "Man wants to buy a wig."

Desire blinks at Trask, reaching to run her hands through his hair. "But bayyyyybe, you have — "

"NOT for him. For frak's sake." Candy apparently has limited patience with her Amazonian sister. "Indy? You wanna go in and see what we have in a long wig? Don't bother with anything that ain't a natural color."

The tiny pink camisole set is more what the man was expecting as far as undergarments go. From there to the clothing line, to the camisole, back to the clothing line his eyes doth flit. Then, he smirks, amused. By the time he diverts his regard, the camisole (and what it covers) are pressed against his well-toned arm. To the redhead, the Taurian smiles with boyish charm, "Hello, Desire. I'm impudent… or so I'm repeatedly told." If she wants to run her hands through his still dampish hair, he doesn't appear inclined to stop her. Trask's attention is back on Candy, however. "The more natural looking the better… although, actually, I'm interested in renting the craziest wig you have, too." Who the frak rents a wig?

"We don't rent our stuff. You buy it or you don't." Candy folds her arms as Indy ducks back into the tent. "You got a figure in mind you're looking to pay? We only trade in smokes." Now that there's a business transaction going down, Candy is all business.

"If you wanna buy some clothes, I could model 'em for you, cutie," Desire purrs, still draped over the visiting lieutenant.

Candy utters a long suffering sigh, blowing out a plume of smoke. "You Navy boys havin' a costume party or somethin'?"

"Just need it long enough that she can be mortified by my 'misguided thoughtfulness'." For he must maintain the balance between being a sweetheart and a jerkass. With an artful shrug, Trask decides, "Sure. Why the frak not?" Evidently, the look on Penny's face will be worth it. As for price, "I'm a Black Country boy, Legs." Not that any of them are bound to know that means he comes from a society so broke that the economy pretty much runs as one giant barter system. "You tell me what you want and we'll go from there."

To Desire, the Taurian replies, "Thanks, Red, but I'm not in the market. Feel free to still model, though." Cheeky ECO is cheeky. "In fact, I'm pretty sure Big Cubits would buy somethin' just to see you wear it." The name may or may not be familiar, but odds are most people in this hangar know of the Baron's roughneck crew.

Another puff, some ash tapped onto the floor, and an answer for Candy come next. "Actually, if you girls are up for it, one of my JiGs is gettin' married. Good kid. Won't get at all handsy. Likely'll just blush that shade." A tilt of the head indicates Dez's hair. "Don't have a date just yet, but lemme know if you're interested."

Desire clasps her hands together and squeals louder than frakking Bubbles presented with a basket full of puppies. "Someone's getting married? Oh how sweet!" She nods eagerly. "I'd love to!" A gasp. "I wonder if I have any pasties?" Distractedly, she scurries off to take inventory.

Candy eyes Trask, amused and clearly intrigued, nursing a little puff from her now-dwindling smoke. "So you're getting the wig for a girl?" She smirks. "'Cause nothin' says 'I hate your hair' like giving her a wig. You don't seem like you're that kinda clueless about women, though."

And thus does Bootstrap rescue his arm from the Amazon in the pink camisole. "I have no problem with her hair. The quarrel is between her curls and radiation poisoning." True to form, he's rather glib in relaying that.

"Hey…" This is the first Indy's spoken, coming out of the tent with her arms full of synthetic hair in about a half-dozen shades. Her voice is a pleasant contralto; her reading glasses have been left inside. "We've got… I don't know if the style's going to be right, but this is all we had in 'real hair' colors… here." She begins to hand them off to Trask. "Two blunt bobs, champagne blonde and black. One long and layered, honey blonde. One long and straight with bangs, black. One light brown layered bob. Oh… and this." The last one is obviously the 'wild' request. "Rainbow striped shag with silver tinsel."

Meanwhile, Candy sits down again, risking tasting the filter on one last drag before she crushes the smoke beneath her boot. She watches, thoughtful but silent.

"Thanks," is said to Indigo with a small smile, his own dwindling cigarette sucked dry and dropped to be crushed beneath one boot. "That one, definitely," is said about the rainbow wig before he commences a closer examination of the more realistic styles. The blunt black bob is eyed for a fair moment, and the expression on his face is as though he's envisioning the dominatrix in thigh-high boots that would be wearing such a thing. This is not a purchase for his sexxxy pretendy fun tiemz, however, so it's set aside in the 'discard' section. Finally, Trask decides on the light brown, layered bob. "She's more of a chestnut, but it's not too much of a stretch. Short enough to not get stuck in machinery." What Taurian isn't practical? "This… this probably is a good length to have while her hair re-grows, yeah? It'll seem more natural, I mean." Yes, he is asking the women for advice.

"Yeah," says Candy, nodding her approval. "I think that's the one."

Indigo gathers up the discard pile, shaking out the wigs and combing them through her her fingers, careful to preserve the merchandise. She seems to be lingering, curious about the rest of the transaction.

"You can have both for one carton," Candy offers, giving Indy a look as the other woman gapes.

"I can do 10 packs," Kal concludes, evidently unaware of the non-novelty wig's actual retail price. Then again, things are only worth what someone is willing to pay, especially in a post-Apocalyptic world. Truth be told, the way Indigo gapes, coupled with how Candy looks at her, makes him wonder if he's being gouged. His expressive eyes narrow in a such a scrutinizing manner, at least. Even so, he says, "Gimme half-an-hour an' you'll have your smokes." Maybe he doesn't begrudge them for trying to make the most of what they have. After all, it doesn't escape him just how much it must suck to be stuck here. Other than that moment of suspicion, there is nothing that suggests he feels somehow cheated.

Having caught Indigo combing through the unchosen wigs with her fingers prompts him to inquire, "So… are there any handling or storage instructions?" Clearly, the El-Tee is no drag queen or cross-dresser.

"Just, uhm, hang them up on something so they don't get crushed flat. You can wash them with shampoo, just like real hair." Indigo rolls her eyes at Candy, pointing at the layered bob, as though to remind the woman, "That one is real hair."

"You know what? Go read your stupid book before I smack you stupider," Candy snaps. With another roll of her eyes, Indigo's off in a huff. Once she's gone, Candy stands, folding her arms. "We'll be here. Don't get lost comin' back now, or I'll have Dezzie send one of her MP boyfriends to find you."

Real hair? "So, wait… does that mean it'll get split-ends or lice, or some shit?" Clueless man is clueless. He's starting to feel that this is above his paygrade. "Maybe… maybe I should just have her come by when she's finally released from the infirmary." That would be safer, surely. "You can show her how to make sure it doesn't come off when she's crawling around in an air duct, or doing repairs in zero-G." Not quite the same as working the pole, but Trask's trying here. Failing, perhaps, but undeniably trying. "I suspect these great womanly mysteries only make sense to women." Beat. "Well, maybe men who wanna look like women would get it."

Candy blinks a few times, then laughs, shaking her head. "Real hair's the best, sweetie. It'll last her at least as long as it takes for her hair to grow back." She snorts faintly, "Sounds like she's a techie type? It's got an elastic, adjustable strap on the inside. She'll be able to figure it out, I'm pretty sure." She gives Trask's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then pinches his nose. "Don't chicken out now, Romeo."

"Yeah. A snipe." Which probably means nothing to a civilian, so he amends, "An engineer. Mechanical & Repair division." Which doesn't explain how she got radiation poisoning, unless he was joking about that. "Well, at least it won't catch fire as easily as the synthetic stuff would." That comment is said in all seriousness. The tweaking of his nose, however, triggers the return of cheek. "It's not chickening out. I merely accept that, as much as I appreciate the sight of a lovely lady, I have no desire to look like one, myself. Besides, with these shoulders, I'd look butch even if gussied up like some glamor puss." They /are/ very manly shoulders. This also is not what Candy meant, but when does that ever stop Trask?

"My mom had to have radiation. She had breast cancer." Candy just sort of throws that out there, out of the blue. "I don't know what's wrong with your girl, obviously, but radiation ain't pretty, no matter what." A beat. She shrugs. "It's a sweet thing you're doing, hot stuff. Just try not to wreck the moment with that mouth of yours." Glancing south of Trask's belt, she smirks. "How about a cigarette for the road?"

A small, mischievous curve of his lips surfaces. "That's what the other wig is for." To wreck the moment, presumably. To his credit, that mouth of his doesn't quip about how nuclear holocaust ain't pretty. The radiation poisoning jokes are kept to himself. As Candy's eyes drop downwards, Kal leans in much closer to murmur in her ear, "That's a cigar, and it's a whole different kind of negotiation to be able to smoke it." When he pulls back, he's wearing a impish smile and holding the heavily pilfered pack he fished out of a pocket. A single cigarette is plucked out and offered. "See ya in 30 or so."

"You let me know how that works out for you," Candy chuckles. Whether she's talking about the other wig, or the cigar, or both? She just pops the cigarette between her lips and smirks. "Already missing you, Hot Stuff. Hurry back."

Taking one for himself for the road, the Lieutenant puts away the pack, lights Candy's cancer stick, and then his own. "Later, Legs," is smirked somewhat saucily, eyes briefly dropping to regard her namesake appendages, and then the ECO is navigating his way on out.

Magical Drag Princess Bootstrap
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