| Being Logical |
| Summary: | Quinn insists that going AWOL to find her family — despite a planned upcoming search party — is perfectly logical. Trask disagrees. |
| Date: | 27 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Assorted Aerilon logs, including the first recon of Aerilon on PHD #008; A Not-So-Impossible Gift & Overrated are referenced |
| Players: |
  |
| Pilot Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
|---|
| Post-Holocaust Day: #213 |
| The battlestar's pilots call this place home. Bunks line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each pair of bunks and a round metal table sits in the center, furnished with simple but comfortable steel chairs. A hatch at the rear of the room leads to a communal head. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
It's fairly late, between shifts… in that very quiet space of time where almost no one is awake or coming and going in the bunks. Maggie's chosen this time to make her get away. Probably not thinking straight — no, certainly not thinking at all, she's finally caved in resolution to go and get her family. She's got a large hiking pack out on her bed and is filling it with almost everything she'd need for a good few days on the surface.
There is no such thing as between shifts for Kal Trask. At most, he gets the occasional power nap. This means he's out and about when most others are down for the count. Like now. "Just how much R&R did Toast clear you for?" he asks, upon approach from somewhere other than here, noticing the bulk of Quinn's backpack. "Maybe I'm just ignorant, but that looks like more than 12-hours' worth of pickles an' peanut butter."
Quinn blinks, stiffening as she hears his voice. She mentally curses, not having gotten out in time from his ever working eye. She glances over her shoulder and that look alone probably tells him more than anything else. Guilt… massive guilt. She got caught with her hand in the worst cookie jar possible. "…Just… packing in case… you know…" she murmurs, quietly. She sucks at lying to him.
Aaaaand cue Look #18: the 'uh-huh, sure, lemme just stare at you with a wry kind of impassiveness that'll make you squirm 'cos you know that I know that you know that I know you're full of shit' look that he does oh so well. "What? Clive grows the balls he lost after knockin' you up and actually agrees to marry you, so you end up movin' into his quarters?" Dry, that.
Quinn shakes her head quietly, looking away so she tries not to appear even more guilty. "No, no… just in case I might end up down there longer, for… whatever reason," she admits simply, voice a bit quiet as she puts a few more things into the bag and strings up the top before rolling it down and securing the clips. That's going to be a pain to carry, especially with her back bothering her as of late. Even if she hasn't told anyone, her movements haven't hidden it all that well.
"Really?" How disingenuously spoken, "'Cuz I'd've thought that /that/," being the Tillman scenario, "as far-fetched a scenario as /that/ is, would happen before you tried to pull a fast one over me, an' go off to fail in doin' something stupid, like, say, try to look for your family all by yourself." Oh, Trask.
Was she really that obvious? Maggie's knees almost go as Trask actually brings it up, accuses her dead on. She just leans heavy against her bed for a moment, letting her breath catch in her throat, her head down. "I…. I can't wait another day. I can't just sit here waiting… wondering… so… So close… Doing -NOTHING-, Kal… I can't…" she chokes out quietly.
Bootstrap may be blunt as a sledgehammer and ignore social niceties, but he's not obtuse. Especially not when it comes to the people he deeply cares about. So, stinky as he is in his duty greens, one strong arm, and then the other, gathers the emotional redhead into a comforting, burden-shouldering hug. "You can, Mags," he murmurs, his tone soft even if his words are hard. "You can, and you will. There was water in the well, okay? They could've taken refuge in the nearby caves. They'd be safe there. An' we're almost done plundering the emporium." Which means they can resume secondary sweeps. Quinn ran the squadron. She knows they have to cover as much ground as possible. And there is also the matter of searching for a salvageable freighter that can be used to house the civilians squatting in the Starboard Hangar. Sitka's already dead. Tensions are running high. The MPs have their hands full maintaining order.
Quinn really is trying not to cry again. He doesn't need to see her cry more, even if she can't quite stop it right now. Hormones really are a bitch. She just leans there, though, body all aching tension against him as she sets her pack back down onto her bed. "When it all first happened, I just wanted to take a shuttle and go… when we first got here, I wanted to… but I waited and waited… They're there, Kal… the cows are still there… there's water… they're there and dying more every day!"
Now, in a soothing manner, he starts to rub that aching back of hers with one hand, still embracing Maggie. "C'mon, now," Kal chides, humor and encouragement laced with a certain tenderness, "They're Quinns. Your kin. Tough frakkers. Even Anne." The smirk at that last is audible, but the sentiment remains sincere. "If they've lasted this long, they'll hold on until we can get the groundpounders back on the ground."
Quinn hiccups a bit of a breath, but she's managing to keep it together and not cry, so that's a good sign at least. She turns her head against his shoulder. "Even when we do… they aren't going to let us go to one tiny little farm in the middle of no where… We were poor, Kal, you saw that… poor as temple mice… there's no way we'd have a ship or even supplies…"
True to form, Trask snorts and rolls his eyes before he drily snarks, "Don't gimme that crap." That is his version of being reassuring. Sure, he thinks most people suck, but he still wouldn't leave anyone behind to rot on the planet. Certainly not based on economic status, and sure as frak not Quinn's family. So, really, 'STFU' suffices. "Lay down. You're hormonal, again." Beat. "Well, more hormonal. I'll make you some tea."
Quinn stares hard at him, "I'm serious! The fuel alone to go get them is… such a waste, for the crew, I know… and the civvie hangar is totally over flowing as it is…" Maggie genuinely thinks they aren't going for her family; it'd be enough to drive anyone half to madness.
"Okay, you're still givin' me that crap," is blithely pointed out. "Now, sit your ass down, and shut the frak up." Tough love, yo. Case in point, the man gets assertive, although not the least bit rough, and makes certain that Maggie at least complies with his first order. Bootstrap even goes so far as to start unlacing and removing her boots once her butt meets the bed.
Quinn blinks, giving just a bit of a yelp, but she's really not quite used to her shifting center of gravity yet, so he can manage to get her sitting down fairly easily as he's now thrown her off. She plops down there, frowning deeply. "I'm sitting, I'm sitting… frak…" She breathes out, almost laughing, almost crying. At least she's managed to hold off the tears. "And… I'm simply being… Logical."
"Woman logic is only logical to women. Hormonal woman logic isn't even that." Oh-ho! Like she'll be able to remain annoyed at that comment. Trask is, after all, rubbing her feet. That should shut her up, at least for a little while. "We're covering the whole frakkin' planet, Maggie, an' we're going back for 'em. Now," said as lovingly as someone wryly can, "shut the frak up."
Quinn sticks her tongue out at him. She's almost about to swat his shoulder but she remembers and catches herself. "I am not being hormonal, dammit… " She growls out quietly, but the rubbing of her swollen feet and ankles is enough to actually blunt some of her anger. She sighs, fingertips rubbing lazily over her belly in turn. "…I didn't get to thank you, yet… for the package… it… It's amazing."
Rising, and with her ankles looped in the crook of one arm, the ECO starts to rotate the preggo so all of her is on the bed. "Lay down," he instructs, not that she really has a choice. The free hand retrieves the backpack and deposits it on the floor. At the heft of the thing, Kal exclaims, "What the frak do you have in here? A baby goat?" Naturally, any semblance of thanks is waved off, oddly modest as he is when it comes to such things. "I'm gonna have the best-dressed slave labor in the Fleet, yo."
Quinn gives a bit of a yelp as he decides she's his very own marionette, taking her feet with him and being shifted around without any real say in the matter. "Hey, hey… gentle… you're gonna throw your back out moving me around like that!" She's not really that big yet, but she jokes about it… probably feels it, not having had any real maternity clothing until now. She smirks at him. "Everything for a few days… I was going to try to walk there. I figured you'd all chase after me for a good court martial, at least… but… I'd have them back too." She tilts her head at the best dressed comment, brows furrowing. "I didn't see baby clothes in there…"
"Who says I was talkin' 'bout the kid?" he cracks in that impish way of his. "You have any idea how tall the stacks of paperwork on my desk are?" Oh, but now he's sitting on the bed and back to rubbing her feet. Maggie surely knows well enough by now that there must be a hidden treasure trove of baby and kiddie stuff. This is, after all, the man who held on to her grandmother's keepsake box and the Quinn family heirloom violin for a solid three months without her suspecting a thing. "Court marshal would be the least of your problems," is the wry reply. Breaking the hard-won trust of someone with major trust issues never ends well.
Quinn didn't actually go, in her defense, even if she honest to gods seems to have been planning it. "Well… that was the plan. If you're serious we're going, I need to be on that Raptor… please…" She whispers up to him, though she's finally relaxing a bit more.
"You will," Trask assures, meaning it. "Now, be a good girl an' fall asleep." Whatever power nap he might have been planning gets postponed until Maggie finally dozes off while he continues to rub her achy ankles and sore soles. And just to be certain she's not going to again attempt something foolish, that backpack of hers will find itself stored in a secondary storage locker, and her access to a Raptor will hinge on the Squadron Leader personally clearing her to board.