| Annual Performance Review - Jugs |
| Summary: | During Quinn's performance review, more than her performance is discussed. It does not end well. |
| Date: | 14 Jun 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | None, really. |
| 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} |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #473 |
The last time Trask and Quinn met for a performance review, he was on the receiving end. Not today, though. Perhaps never again, for the matter. The weight of those Captain pins and of being an SL has certainly resulted in him shouldering more responsibility, but he's still somewhat recalcitrant in little ways he can get away with. For example: wearing his duty greens even when the blues would be more appropriate. You can saddle a mustang but it still remains a mustang, after all.
Still off the flightline, he's been filling those Alert Status and CAP hours with all other manner of work, such as compiling and analyzing data for aforementioned VAQ-wide performance reviews. While he waits for his fellow Captain, he combs over the most recent sims footage of him flying a virtual Raptor.
Quinn steps into the area, just fitting into her duty blues, but at least she is. She's trying to make a good impression for her first performance review ever before Trask. Back stiff and shoulders straight, she greets into the room professionally, "Sir!"
For a moment, big brown eyes blankly stare. Then they blink. And then he is ON. "Where the frak's the salute?" Trask drily needles. "What," he gestures at Maggie with one hand, "what's with this slipshod, half-assed shit? Comin' in here in your blues, standin' all stiff an' straight, callin' me, sir… FORGETTING to salute."
Quinn snaps out the salute almost immediately, not really having been certain of the exact level of protocol he wanted. Now, she knows. At least her salute is crisp and precise, even if a bit belated. "Sir! Reporting for review, sir." She echoes then, remaining stiff and straight, awaiting further orders.
Even people who scarcely know the man would be aware that this is likely more protocol than he every wants. Even so, he plays along, seeing how Quinn's going through the trouble of entertaining him with such unnecessary antics. "Better," he blithely notes. "I see that giving Pens handjobs has kept your saluting arm in-shape while you were knocked-up." He even says it with a straight face, but the impish gleam is there in his eyes. "At ease, Captain. Park it an' we can get this over with."
Quinn just smirks at him, but she holds back any witty comebacks in her own attempt at professionality. She nods and steps the rest of the way into the room, moving to a chair and folding down into it, but sitting on the edge with her back stiff. She is at Ease, but not ease. "Yes, sir. To the sitting. Not the handjobs." He gets a slightly longer smirk there.
"Bullshit." About the handjobs. "If it were blowjobs, you'd have tighter abs," he notes, because all his capacity for professionalism needs to be saved up for people other then Jugs and Bunny and Shortcut and… well, no. He'd likely mouth off like this with everyone. "So, even off the flightline for so many months, your footage and scores are still awesome. Only suggestion I have on that front is to keep doin' what you've been doin'."
Quinn keeps that smirk lingering clear upon her freckled features, head shaking just a touch to him. Hell, he's managed to get just a hint of heat rising up on her pale cheeks. She clears her throat and sits straighter in her chair, if that's possible. "Thank you, sir. I shall continue my flight work as requested, then."
Moving on… "So, some time back, Toast and I agreed that our peeps need to get cross-certified. You already are, though, so you're two-for-two. Since being my second doesn't warrant much more than a bit of paperwork," unless, of course, he is incapacitated, "I'd like you to take a stab at teaching. I know you've never had any formal training as a trainer, but you have so much experience in what needs to be taught, it'd be a waste to not put it to even more use."
Quinn considers that a few moments, frowing in thought. "If… if you wish. I truly don't know if I'll be any good at it but… I am willing to try. I just haven't any training in instructing people and teaching methodology in the least," she admits, looking a bit shamed for that deficiency in her record.
The lack of experience doesn't appear to concern Bootstrap because it honestly doesn't concern him. "Cid's been givin' me some pointers, but I'm not gonna win a Ruby Apple Award anytime soon. I suspect she'll make some time to train some more teachers. I've already enrolled Bunny in this continuing education program. I'm not sayin' that either of you'll be pulling shifts with the Hyperlights," because that's the CAG's call, "but you both can definitely benefit our rooks and even our more seasoned peeps." In the VAQ-141, that is.
Quinn nods slowly, still sitting forward and tense, but she isn't freaking out over the new assignment or anything. "Very well, just give me a date to start and I will be there. We'll have to juggle Sawyer's schedule a bit more as well, but hopefully she will not mind." Apparently, Maggie is fine with being away from home a bit more often.
Maybe he considers it a done deal, or maybe he just doesn't care if Sawyer /does/ mind, because all he says is a quasi-dismissive, "It'll work out. I'll speak with Cid." And then it's on to the next topic on his agenda of things to discuss. "So." Whereas Jugs is uber upright, Bootstrap is somewhat sprawled. "PT." Could it be that the pilot has too much muffin-top for his taste? "I want you to concentrate on fighting forms. I don't care if it's boxing, kickboxing, aikido, or whatever. Although, really, aikido is crap for cardio in comparison. The point is, skip the treadmill."
Quinn looks just a touch ashamed as he mentions PT and fighting shape. Maggie has NEVER been a fighter, always slim, but not strong and toned. Pregnancy has definitely added curves to her frame that weren't there before. She looks down at her rather tight duty blues. "Is this commentary on my physical shape, sir, or my martial abilities in the field?"
"Personally? I don't really care what you look like naked. /Fitness/ is a factor, though," is his reply. "You've been cleared for duty, so it's not like you're /outta/ shape." So, no, Kal is not calling her a Fatty Fatty Two-by-Four. "But if it's between runnin' laps and kickin' ass, gotta go with the ass kickin', Mags. It'll serve you better in the field /and/ at home. I mean, what good is that mother's instinct to protect her cub when you can barely throw a punch?" Tough love, yo.
Quinn frowns a touch, accepting the tough love, though also a hint insulted that he does not think she could protect her child right now. "Very well. I will start training martially at your request, sir." She protests no longer, but doesn't look thrilled.
Contrary to popular belief, Trask isn't emotionally clueless as much as he is actively indifferent. Quinn's resentment is something he definitely picks-up on. For once, he even bothers to address her feelings. "You heard what happened to Doc Adair, right?" He was beaten into a coma. "That sure as frak better not happen to you. And just because Clive," stressed a bit snidely, "doesn't give two-shits about the little shit factory he helped spawn," and that the Taurian loves despite all the poop, "doesn't change the fact that she gets half her DNA from him. You really think it's beyond the realm of possibility that some idiotic asshole might go after Kalli to get to him?" Rabid guard dog uncle is rabidly guarding.
Quinn arches a brow, considering this very possibility. "In truth? I do not think… Other than some of the Air Wing, I do not think anyone on this ship even really knows Kalli's his. We've kept it fairly quiet for that reason more than to protect -his- reputation. We've done everything we can to keep her safe. But… I will take your words to heart, Sir. I swear it. If you want me in fighting shape, I will do everything I can to be there. But she is still an infant who needs her mother a -fair- amount of hours in a day. Protection comes in all different forms."
"Okay, one?" Up goes a finger, joined by a semi-sour expression. "Can the 'sir' stuff. Seriously. It ceased being funny six jokes ago. And two," up goes a second finger, "PT is mandatory. I'm not assigning more hours; I'm telling you how to make better use of that time." Cue the dramatic eye roll, as if all of this should've been obvious.
Quinn bows her head to him, "Very well, and I agree… Captain…" She actually doesn't seem certain of what to call him in a fully professional atmosphere, if it's not sir. So she settles on his title.
"Oh, for frak's sake." Now his head rolls back when his eyes again roll. If she's going to be all formal, fine. He's still gonna snerk and huff a bit. Beat… two… three… and then he's back, and even leaning forward. "So, it's settled." Which leaves him with, "Anything you want me to know before I sign-off on this review?"
Quinn shakes her head quietly, "I do not believe so. We've discussed pretty much all I expected." She gives him a half smile, trying to be partially apologetic and reassuring.
"Great." It comes out a bit clipped because, really, he's glad it's done. All that remains is for him to flip open his folder, remove a copy of the report filled out in triplicate form, and slide it over to Quinn, along with a pen, so she can sign. He's already gone ahead and put down his Hancock.
Quinn leans over, accepting the pen and scrawling her name across the report as quickly as possible. She's quite glad it's done as well. Once she sets the pen down she stands up and stiff again, saluting. Waiting to be dismissed.
Once the signature is there, he tears off the copy for Quinn and hands it to her. Seeing that she's already standing, he levels a dry look and tells her, "Sit your ass back down. We're only getting started."
Quinn blinks, her brows both arching once more, but then she folds back down into the seat across from him. She does accept her copy and folds it thrice before slipping it into her side pocket. " Alright… Captain. What is the level of formality for the rest of this meeting?" she really has no clue how to act with him now that he's her superior, in such settings.
What's the level? The question that follows should be an indicator. "So, what's the deal with you an' Pens? He propose yet or what?" Could it be that Trask is even a little annoyed?
Quinn blinks at those words, though her cheeks pinken just a bit there. She also does relax, not sitting near so stiffly as she was a heartbeat before. "Ah… yes. He did. We're… going to figure out some small wedding… soon. Both of us have just been so busy."
And now annoyance transitions into petulance. "When'd this happen, an' why the frak didn't you bother telling me? Never mind the whole I'm your SL crap and thus need to be informed as a matter of protocol. Did we stop being friends and you just didn't bother sending me the memo?" Yeah, he's hurt. After all, she's carved and inked into his left bicep as family. That is no small thing for a Taurian, and even more so not a small thing for the likes of him.
Quinn blinks at the expression on his face, almost looking rather more embarrassed now. She looks down to the desk, clearing her throat quietly. "Ah… He asked when he was very, very sick… I thought he was just hallucinating. I told him to ask again when he didn't have a fever. So, he brought it up the other night. It was just a conversation. There was no ring… No… pomp and circumstance. I guess it doesn't really feel… Real yet. Hell." Maggie admits, her expression still in a hint of dawning shock about it. It's very clear that she didn't tell him because her mind hasn't even processed it yet.
One would think he'd be happy for his BFF. Once he gets over feeling hurt, the good news will sink in. For now, he's still brooding. "About frakkin' time," is what he instead says. "I suggest doing it before Command decides we'll be going to Gemenon. Otherwise? It might be a while before Sam can be properly carved." Because that requires being off the flight line for a few days to recover, lest one wants to run the risk of infection and distorted ink.
Quinn looks up to his eyes a few moments, just studying him. She nods in understanding about the carving, accepting the words. "I'll remind him. We… we need to find someone… willing and certified to perform the wedding and we'll just… Do it. We don't need a lot of mess around it." She affirms quietly, but she can still see the brooding in her best friend's eyes. "Kal, look… I'm sorry. I… I haven't told anyone. I… don't think I've really, really processed it myself. It doesn't feel real."
"Just go down to the JAG, fill out the paperwork. You want somethin' religious…" He shrugs. "I dunno." Yeah, he's peeved. "Ask someone in CMES. I can send word to Amato about the whakairo. If you want a dress made… frakked if I know." As for Maggie being sorry, he turns his head away and tilts his eyes to the corner. "Whatever. I'm over it." He so isn't, but it's best to just let him have his little tantrum. Eventually, it genuinely will roll off him. Just not in the immediate future.
Quinn rolls her eyes to him and stands up. "You know, Kal… if I had flounced over to you the moment he asked me and spilled like a giggling little girl, you'd have mocked that too. But I keep it cool. I go on with my life, my PT… a full CAP schedule and raising a child. I am sorry the fact that the man I already consider my life's partner asked me to sign a paper with him didn't make your front page news the day it happened. I've been a bit busy," she growls out. "Frak it. Am I dismissed?"
Quinn is now rather pissed herself, in truth.
Maggie's little rant is permitted to go off without hitch. Kal doesn't bother to look at her, though. He just continues to brood and otherwise be petulant. Towards the end, though, his eyes tighten a tick as a more volatile brew of emotions starts to seethe. For a moment, he's silent, and then he turns to look at her with no small amount of bravado in his body language, which contrasts the glossiness that marks his eyes. "So sorry that I didn't have an award made for you," is the blithe retort to the awesomeness of her carrying on. Which is to say 'frak you'. As for being dismissed, he again looks away and flicks his hand in a shooing manner. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Knock yourself out in gettin' the frak out." This meeting is adjourned.
Quinn stares at him, utterly incredulous for a heartbeat or two, before she just turns on the ball of her foot and marches out the door. No more words to be said. She also doesn't care to let him see those tears down her face that are coming all too damn fast.
Suits him just fine. The sooner she gets out of here, the sooner he can angrily knock to the floor everything on his desktop while he fails to stave off tears of his own.