| Bootflinging and Gossip |
| Summary: | People gather around Psyche and Pallas' bunk to discuss recent events. |
| Date: | 21 Jul 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Pilot Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #144 |
| 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 |
Kadena looks at the new person, his question about Tisiphone getting her to sigh. "Critical condition," she answers while looking away, unable to look remotely at those here with her. Shaking her head, she darts a look to Devlin and awwwws, sounding genuinely disappointment. "Maybe we can make you something like it." Arts and crafts - family fun for all!
Devlin is sitting on Psyche's bunk with her, the blonde having zoned out listening to her headphones for a bit, it seems. That terrible Caprican pop. It— well, maybe it really has rotted her brain. Anyway, the nugget is currently shaking his head at Kadena, saying, "No, really, I'd rather you didn't. It was itchy and ridiculous." To Marko he offers, "I think that," he gestures to the nurse to indicate her answer, "And the CAG's memo are all the info there is in here just now. As far as I've heard."
Evandreus trudges back in. This whole running around the ship's been cutting pretty severely into his beauty sleep. And so, his pink-spotted toenails clashing with the terry red robe he's got on, he yawns his way back into berths, shamble-footed, squeezing his eyes shut as he grabs the rungs up to Psyche's bunk, once more. In lieu of greeting Abs, he just flashes him his tonsils. Hi, there.
"Dammit." Marko sighs, slamming his locker door closed before beginning to pull on a Fleet sweat suit. "The frak happened? Does anybody know? I heard she took a shot at somebody who might or might not have been a Cylon…Haven't been able to get a straight answer out of anyone."
Pallas is sober and mostly in a flightsuit, which can only mean one of two things: he just got off CAP, or he's just about to go on CAP. He stops some ten feet away from his bunk, narrows his eyes, and crosses half the remaining distance. "What in the great green frak," he snaps, opening up his locker. Booze, old socks, notepads, booze, cigarettes, booze, and… winner! Booze! So he must've just gotten off CAP.
Kadena is startled by the yawn and she looks quickly at Bunny, her smile nowhere to be found. "How did it go," she asks, trying to ignore the talk of the cylon and the wounded Lieutenant, her normal unflappable nature flapped. She watches him and then Pallas, yet another new face, he watched as a momma hawk watches a fledgling, a keen eye kept on him as is her habit. She's still by the hatch while the others are milling around the berths, doing their own thing.
"The way I hear it," Devlin replies to Marko, "She tried to shoot the Cylon prisoner, and the Marines shot her. That's all I know." Evan's yawn is taken as a greeting and gets a chin-up from the nugget in return before he looks down at Pallas arriving.
Evandreus snaps his fingers into a thumbs-up to Macer. "Everything came out okay at the end," he lets her know, as deadpan as only a man half-asleep can sound. On his knees in Psyche's bunk, he falls to his side, as if someone should be calling out 'timber.' Arms snug about Abs' waist, and he's more or less asleep by the time his head hits pillow, the nugget duly claimed for purposes of cuddling.
Another pilot bustles into berthings, as pilots are wont to do. This one's still dressed in his blues, jacket unbuttoned and mostly concealing the Captain's pins that ride the collar. Sitka's juggling a plate of food in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, and very nearly dumps the whole lot on Kadena as he swerves around her. A mumbled apology is given, and he veers off toward one of the tables bisecting the two rows of bunks.
"Why is the Gods-be-damned rolling ratfrak brigade perched on top of my bunk?" Pallas wonders aloud - and not quietly, either - as he lights up a cigarette. The smoke is unceremoniously blown at his bunkmate's visitors. Since he only walked in on the tail end of the conversation, he doesn't really know what or who they're talking about - and draws the wrong conclusion. "Psyche went psycho and got shot?" he asks. Is that a tinge of hope in his voice? Sitting on the edge of his bunk, he starts stripping down, nearly hitting Sitka when he kicks off one of his boots.
"Actually, sir, it was Lieutenant JG Apostolos who went psycho and got shot," is the dry correction, it coming from the very same woman who is dodging Sitka and his near-juggled plate and cup, her eyes darting towards the Captain after she scoots away. "Quite alright," she says with a smile while getting herself moved away from the hatch, Kadena not wanting to get bumped into or have something spilled upon her just because she was too skittish to enter fully. One last look, this one to Bunny, and she's smiling. "You'll be done with the tests before you know it."
The sight and scent of hot food and the thought of something to drink grabs Marko's attention immediately. "Scuse me for a sec, folks." he calls to anyone who might be listening. "I ain't had any food since breakfast. Gonna raid the galley before they run out."
There's probably some sort of regulation regarding not eating in berthings. Shiv clearly doesn't give a shit; this isn't the first time he's taken his dinner back to his room, and it undoubtedly won't be the last. After managing not to get pegged by one of Pallas' boots, he sets his plate atop the table and promptly heads for his locker. Changing and showering evidently take higher priority than eating— that, and he has a great deal of trust, evidently, for his bunkmates.
Devlin blinks as Evan lays down and goes to sleep while effectively including him in the pile of sleeping pilots with that restricting arm around his waist. "Huh," he says quietly, just shrugging at Pallas' question about the ratfrak brigade, and then letting someone else jump in before him and correct about who got shot. "He's asleep," he informs Kadena helpfully, hooking a thumb at Bunny.
Pallas's brows raise as Kadena speaks up. "Apostolos, hmm?" he repeats. "So Cumshot took one herself. Well, well, well." There's a low and throaty chuckle before he takes a drink and the other boot is kicked off. You'd think he's actually trying to hit Sitka, the way those boots fly. His eyes don't even flicker over to Marko as the man excuses himself. Shiv's food gets eyeballed - but no move is made. Yet. Patience, Pallas, patience.
Kadena blinks and then smiles. "Wow. They must breed men like you special where you come from and by 'special' I mean retarded." Shaking her head, she looks around before shrugging. "Guess I should return to sickbay now that I have gotten Bunny to take this afternoon's urinalysis. Take care, all." Pallas himself is given a cute little waggle of fingers before she disappears, leaving like she had came, that being quietly.
Blues jacket slung into a corner of his locker in lieu of being hung up, towel and a change of clothing dragged out, Sitka nudges the door shut with his knee and dodges Pallas' second boot on his way to the showers. One might call the one, the antithesis of the other; where the older pilot throws his weight and his footwear around, the Saggie seems entirely unwilling to get into it. The bootflinging or the gossip. Out he goes, with just a brief parting glance for the medic lurking in the hatchway. His dinner stands a roughly thirty-five percent chance of still being there when he returns.
Marko bustles back into the berths with a bowl of something approaching dinner and a big glass of bug juice. Carefully, he makes his way towards another of the low tables between the bunks and settles in to eat hungrily.
"My retard seed will save humanity," Pallas declares toasting himself with the bottle. And drinks his fair share, too. Once Sitka clears the room, he sits himself down and starts to chow down without a second's hesitation, shoveling stolen food into his mouth and taking puffs of his cigarette in between. Within moments, the plate is cleaned up completely. "Gotta love delivery service," he chuckles, already starting to slur a little bit.
Marko is sitting at one of the low tables between the rows of bunks, tucked into a bowl full of something vaguely food-looking with single minded intensity.
Pallas stands up, having just finished Sitka's food. Bottle in one hand and cigarette in the other, half-stripped out of his flightsuit and half-wasted already, he starts walking away and humming to himself loudly under his breath. He punctuates the high points of his song by CLANG!ing his bottle off of lockers and bedframes, bits of alcohol dribbling out and spilling onto the floor. The Fleet's shining star, ladies and gentlemen - is out to piss like a racehorse.