| Annual Performance Review - Bunny |
| Summary: | Evandreus' annual performance review, wherein Trask also lays out some out-of-the-cockpit expectations. |
| Date: | 09 Jun 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | Foreclosed (Rutger Tower, aka why Bunny is a mess); unposted Evan and McManus logs |
| Players: |
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| Ready Room - Deck 7 - Battlestar Cerberus |
| With the hatches at the rear of the room, the walkways on both sides slope down towards the dais at the front of the room. The stadium seating forms a partial semi-circle around the speaking podium and provides enough seats for all three hundred members of the Air Wing. The walls are adorned with the patches of each squadron aboard and their mottos stenciled in white lettering above each one. Behind the podium is a set of large LCD screens that can display any matter of material from reconnaissance to maps to gun camera footage. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #468 |
Annual performance reviews. With Cerberus leaving drydock mid-February of 2041 AE, perhaps they should've been conducted a few months ago. Factor in the change in squadron leadership, which went in-effect on the 22 of June in that same year, and it makes some sense that they are being handled only now. At the designated place and time, one Captain Kal "Bootstrap" Trask, is waiting for one Lieutenant Evandreus "Bunny" Doe. Dressed in his duty greens, the SL is scribbling something or another in a small notebook, not even pausing as he takes a sip of beloved Deck coffee from his thermos.
Of course performance reviews would hit now, while the Bunny's at his lowest in terms of spirit, self-confidence, and grace. Still, this being a Thing, he tidies himself up for it, showing up bushy-tailed, if not exactly bright-eyed. Blue uniform tidy and kept after barely seeing the light of… lightbulb for just about ever. Gait numb and gangly, expression withdrawn and partially vacant, he heads in and steps down toward the front, one resigned step at a time. "Hey," is the feeble syllable of greeting to let Boots know he's there.
"Lieutenant Doe," doth Trask glibly greet, an amused little smile coiled at the corners of his mouth. That is until those big brow eyes lift from what the man was writing and settle on Evandreus. Something's clearly wrong, which upsets the SL on several levels. Unthinkingly, the pen is rap-a-tap-tapped against the notebook while he mulls over options. "You wanna discuss what's got you so glum?" Yes, he's daring to inquire about emotions.
Evandreus absent-mindedly shakes his head, not particularly wanting to— but that doesn't mean he won't. Even as his neck twists lethargically this way and that, "My therapist is in a coma," he answers. "The shrinkstaff is talking about putting me back on the meds until he wakes up, but I really, really don't feel like going down that road again." A deep breath, "And it's three days since the anniversary of our trip to Rutger Tower, which… just… isn't helping anything, ever," he has out with it, lifting a hand to push fingers in frustration through his hair before he lets it flap back down to his side, standing up straighter and squaring his shoulders, even trying to summon up a smile. "I'll be okay." He might even mean it.
"Better be, or I'll find /some/ way to make you even more miserable. And keep in mind that death does not stop the likes of me," Bootstrap smirks, although he's not entirely unsympathetic. "Let's start with you plonkin' your cotton-tail down, though." The questions can wait.
"Like if I go far enough to the wretched, I'll come around to cheerful again?" Evan's mouth pulls up to one side, and he settles down in a chair, lifting one leg to cross over the other at the knee, hands folded on the topmost knee, arms extended forcefully in an effort to keep his posture straight. A deep breath, and he waits for word from above, giving himself over to fate and the SL— who can say which is the more cruel?
Trask may be cruel, but it's generally in the pre-emptive way a troubled child is cruel, which possesses a strange kind of innocence to the maliciousness. Other times, he's cruel to be kind, although his noble intentions are more or less lost in his abrasive approach. Even so, yes, there are moments when he merely is amusing himself with a certain impudent glee. Odds are that Bunny will be getting what's behind Door Number Two.
"I was thinkin' more of some semblance of spiteful satisfaction," Kal admits, "but we can test your hypothesis, if you really want." Because nothing is sacred with the likes of him. "So, Doc Adair's your shrink, or is someone else in a coma?" That's the first question, asked with a fair amount of uncertainty. "I know you were doin' acupuncture treatments with him…" But that's not really psychotherapy.
"Yah, Cam does acupuncture, pressure points, therapeutic massage. He's really great," Evan answers, already putting on his 'official interview' voice, brisk and even. "I never really thought one way or the other about those sorts of alternative therapies. I have to say I've been impressed, though. He got me off of the pills, which… I really needed to be, I think."
Here comes the rub: Bootstrap hate hate hates with hatedy hateness when others poke his vulnerable bits, so he's reluctant to prod further when his friend puts on the 'official interview' voice. Nodding to all that is said, he does not immediately speak, considering what route to take. "Cam's a good man who does good work. More than good, even, on all counts." Briefly, a frown forms, seeing how the man in question is currently in a coma. Truly, the Taurian feels it's a loss. "No one else in Medical does that acupuncture stuff?" A pause, then agreement. "Yeah, you did, and we'll do all we can to keep you off that stuff." Just as soon as they figure out how that can be done.
"Paul does therapeutic massage, but it's a different sort of thing. Rehabilitation of musculature, rather than making the brainmeats leak the right sorts of chemicals," Evan answers. "If anyone else does it, nobody's come forward with it. Maybe I'll ask around on Elpis, see if anyone knows anyone. I mean, at this point, when Cam wakes up he's not going to be in any state to see patients, anyhow. He's going to need rehab of his own and all that." He's glassing right over the possibility that Cam could possibly not wake up.
"Paul?" is asked in an amused, slightly teasing tone. "Isn't he a bit butch for you?" Likely not the best approach, but it certainly is consistent with Kal's penchant for social FAIL. It also steers conversation away from the doom and gloom that is a comatose Cameron. Even so, it's not lingered upon. "What're you needin' therapeutic massage for anyway?" It's a genuine question. "This 'cuz of all your slouching?"
"He is kind of intimidatingly studly, isn't he?" Evan answers the question with another question that seems to take Boots' question as a joke, not to be taken seriously, used to Tall Kal's sense of humor by now and not taking any offense by it. "No, it's an endorphin thing. It basically gets my brain to do on its own what the pills used to do for it, except, you know… in moderation, and naturally, so it doesn't get me going all crazy on it."
"I know you like 'em pretty," Trask notes, "but if I were to go for a guy, I'd want a manly man. Otherwise, there's no real point." That may or may not be serious. "I'm guessin' he's too muscle-y for your tastes, though. Not really built for cuddlin', huh?" And everyone knows how much Evan loves to cuddle.
"Not really my type, no," Evan answers a little more flatly as Boots persists on the topic. Of course, Evan can hardly be said to have a type, unless that type is Octavian, the shade that dwells in the Bunny's eyes and inspires an effort at a smile. "He's a good guy, though. Great to hang around with when I want to remember what talking to an adult human is like." Because Evan has from time to time gotten stuck in babyspeak mode from too much time with his only social hours being spent around infants.
"Not really your type," is repeated in a quasi-murmur, those brown eyes now assessing. It lingers in the air until its very weight sinks into the silence, left to slowly drown. "Is he aware that he's not really your type?" The question isn't condemning, but it isn't entirely neutral.
Evandreus leans forward, shoulders shifting uncomfortably. "I'm pretty sure I'm not his type, either, okay?" he replies, Leontinian accent leaking through into his voice more thickly than average, rounding out the vowel sounds, but unable for all that to mask some worry in his voice, betraying the statement before it's half-spoken. Bunny can lie to a lot of people like it was the most natural thing in the world. Boots, however, is not one of those people.
"Really." It's said in that dry way that a question is really more a droll calling of 'bullshit'. The bland, level gaze is the sort that can make the less than confident shrivel. "Well," Kal perks up a wee bit, "here's the thing, Buns…" At which point the SL leans closer, "Just in case you /are/ his type, you need to let him no that you're not interested. Or if you don't /know/ whether or not you're interested, you need to let him know that, too. You're clearly still in love with a dead guy, and this living fellow deserves the courtesy of knowing that. If he chooses to wait it out or whatever, that's on him, but it's a real dick move that you're not allowing him to make an informed decision." Which, for all the crap Trask's put Sawyer through, he's definitely been honest.
Evandreus looks up and to the side, lips drawing at the dry statement, not quite with the vigor of an eyeroll, more a pensive staring contest with a corner. When he sets them back onto Boots, they seem somehow steeled. "You're not going to give him any trouble, are you?" the question twisted in a tone which is only too knowing of the mischief Boots can wreak when let loose on a delicate social situation without adult supervision. "He doesn't want anyone knowing about him, and… for the rest of it, we're just… seeing. That's all. I know I should tell him, and— I'm going to," he mumbles the decision unsettledly, with a defensive sort of shrug. "It's not an easy thing to sneak into a conversation, yanno? Oh, by the way…" Evan mocks up the segue, then sighs. "Anyhow, it's not like everyone didn't lose people when the bombs fell. I'm just the only person who can't frakking get on with life," he mutters darkly. Anger turned inward is depression.
"Know what about him? That he's fancies some guy who's in love with some dead dude?" Never one to have a problem with another person's sexuality as long as it wasn't imposed upon his person, the notion that McManus is in the closet doesn't even occur to Kal. If it did, he certainly would be certain to point out how stupid it is for anyone to have that kind of hang-up, but that's neither here nor there.
Instead, he plows on, "Well, then, stop trying to sneak it in. Just be up-front about it. Like… I dunno." Now he's actually prompted to think about it, which contorts his mien into a crinkly, frowny-face one would find on a little boy who is being made to do something he'd rather not do. "Somethin' like: 'Oh, hey, Paul. I know we've been spending time together and stuff, and I'm sensin' that you're feelin' me as more than a friend, so I need to tell you that I'm a total mess right now and I don't really know what I want 'cuz I really loved someone a whole lot and I'm not over the fact that he's dead'. Except…" Cue return of the crinkly, frowny-face and the inclusion of floundering flourish of his left hand, "make it sound nice." Because Bootstrap is fully aware that he's not the most sensitive of people.
"Hold on, let me take notes," Evan tells Boots, fond but flat, as if taking relationship advice from him, of all people, were somewhat laughable, despite the thoroughly trashed state of his own affairs of the heart. "And here I thought you were just going to yell at me for my range scores. I didn't know there was a bedroom element to the performance review, now."
Without missing a beat, Bootstrap points out, "I never said it'll result in happily ever after — only that it's the decent thing to do. You keep goin' the way you're goin', though, and that guy's gonna be hella hurt. Far more than by tellin' him what I told you to tell him." Beat. "Only prettier." Evan is good with making words pretty.
As for the rest, attention is turned to the folder on Trask's desktop, which he flips open. "Not /just/ your range scores," he smirks with a sidelong look. "You need to bolster up on the big guns, too. The very notion you were in the Cavaliers with your skill level is a testament as to how desperate they were." Slightly ribbing as it is, it's none-the-less a fair assessment. "If that weren't enough, Toast and I have agreed we want all the Harriers cross-certified. I'll schedule you for an ECM placement test."
It's more than fair, and Evan accepts it as such. He has been kind of feeling like a jerk about Paul, and here's Kal not pussy-footing about the topic but throwing it in his face. And the gun scores. Well. It's no big news to him; he knows what his scores are, after all, and he just sort of bobbles his head acceptingly about it all. To the last, though, he lifts his chin, ear angling toward his shoulder, "Huh. Okay," he agrees, easily enough. He might easily feel more at home behind an ECM console than at the range, and the training hours he'll be looking forward to means less time trying to get rid of bullets as quickly as possible so that they'll let him out of the shooting range. "Are you going to be running training or who?" he wonders.
That last question actually prompts a snicker. "Maybe if I miraculously somehow have the time." A squadron does not run itself, after all. More seriously, he remarks, "I'm sure I'll offer some training sessions, but the more senior ECOs will also be doing some of the heavy lifting. I'll speak with Toast to see if the Providers or Elevens might have someone capable that can be poached for some lessons." The folder is flipped closed. "Guns, though. Both kinds. No more slackin' off, Evan. You /need/ to get up to spec." It's a simple statement, perhaps a little imploring at the eyes because he'd rather not be a hardass about it, even if he totally will be if necessary.
"Guns," Evan repeats, as though to let Boots know he heard it. "Not like I haven't been at the range," he points out, "Just this week I've gone through more rubber than a boys-only house party." Which is Leontinian for an orgy that takes place over the spread of at least three separate floors of a building. Of course, quantity does not always imply quality, but at least he's putting in his hours at it. He can't help but get better at it eventually.
"You'll get there when you get there," is the SL's response. "Just keep puttin' in the hours and givin' it your all." Which may or may not be happening in the case of the latter. Trask isn't crying foul, though, just yet. "To the rest, lookin' good, Buns." A pause, then, and some consideration. Rap-a-tap-tap goes the pen, again. "How d'ya feel about teaching?"
Evandreus is quiet for a moment, and lips twist up to one side in the semblance of a shrug. "I've never given it much thought, really. Did you have someone that needs a wing to get taken under?" he wonders, "Or are you just looking for more people to help with certification? I mean, I can try. I've never taught anything before, though."
"Toast and I discusses this a while ago." The way his eyes roll suggests that it must be no less than six (6) months. "The aim is to get everyone cross-certified and to give 'em instruction experience. Our numbers are so small, the more people who can teach, the better. Toast gave me some pointers, but it's not like I've had much in the way of time to be teaching more than the occasional on-the-fly thing. You have a way with people, though, and I think you'd actually enjoy it."
"Yeah," Evan breathes out a quiet agreement, "Being able to take more students on would be good for our numbers in future. We may have picked Elpis clean of people with flight experience by now, and soon we're going to have to start baking pilots from scratch. Which, as far as I remember, takes just about forever."
Evandreus gives no indication of whether or not he'd enjoy it, as anti-social as his mood's been of recent. The thought of being around people just sort of makes him tired. But he'll at least admit it's needed.
"We make the most of what we have, but I think we can do better than we have been," Kal concurs before further clarifying, "Look, I'm not sayin' you'll be assisting Sweet Pea with the Hyperlights 'cuz that's Cid's call, but I know you definitely can further develop our Rooks. You've got wide wings, Buns, and I know you'll be able to steer all those chicks in the right direction. Besides…" And here he flashes a lopsided smile, a humored gleam in his brown eyes, "You'd be the anti-Leyla in approach, much like Maggie is the anti-me." Not everyone can be a harsh taskmaster, after all. Sometimes, a softer touch is needed.
Fade for sleep…