| Carrier Landings! |
| Summary: | The Galley is witness to Stupid Pilot Tricks(tm), incriminating photographs, and the CAG in a palanquin. |
| Date: | 2041.08.17 |
| Related Logs: | none. |
| Players: |
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<OOC: Galley @desc will go here.>
Note: Devlin's player graciously created a playlist of 'questionably popular' music as the soundtrack to the event. You may listen to it here.
Three weeks in the galley on KD will net even a de-minted LTJG a few pals amongst the rank-and-file. There's the High Lady of the Dishwashers, the mousy girl who kept Tisiphone elbow-deep in dishwater for days on end; there's the runner, the dark-haired boy who never makes it to shift on time but can find anything, anywhere, at the lightest bellow from the Chief; there's a few others, brought in by curiousity or shadenfreude to see exactly what the hell 'Hey, Boy' — Pridgeon's namesake for her, the entire time — was talking about when she promised a shot for anyone who showed for a lesson in Stupid Pilot Tricks.
A few rows of tables have been shoved around and folded up, at the very back of the cavernous galley, to make room for a double-long buffet table; there's a huge bucket of melting ice and water already slopped around the floor; there's a smaller table with a couple bottles with contents of various colours; there's a cobbled-together sound-system playing something tinny and questionably popular two weeks before the apocalypse arrived; and there's a Tisiphone, rolling her eyes at something one of the galleyfolk said as she scrubs handfuls of ice across the table, wetting it down.
"Trust me, man," she laughs. "Trust me. It's frakking /hilarious/." Who wouldn't trust a grin like that, right? Right.
What is drawn to the notion of laughing at Stupid Pilot Tricks more so than a marine? Constin is present, eyeing Tis' laughing assurance skeptically, arms crossed. "Uh-huh," the sergeant drawls. "Got a helluva lot to prove before it matches a Jump Party, s'all ah'm saying."
Lunair had heard of the idea. Didn't Tis mention it to her at one point? She thinks so. Either way, Lunair is slinking in. Her eyes are as wide as saucers. This, to the blue blooded Canceron might as well be a circus or a spectacle or - who knows. "Ooo…" She's never seen this before. "Hey there," She smiles at Constin and grins, hearing Tisiphoone laugh.
"You make your first landing, you've got room to bitch," replies Tisiphone to Constin's dubiousness, grinning over her shoulder at him as she shoves a clump of slushy ice down the table. She tucks her arms under her armpits to thaw her fingers out as she ambles back to the euphemistically-termed 'drinks counter'.
"What's to keep us from yanking the cord early, anyway?" calls the dark-haired boy from a spot further down the table. He's unrolling an extension cord — thankfully not plugged in — to serve as the landing cable.
"Absolutely nothing," replies Tisiphone, grinning as she splashes some clear liquid into one of the steel shotglasses waiting there. Her eyes light when she spots Lunair, and the shotglass is lifted to her before she knocks it back.
"I don't know," Psyche insists, laughing, as she and Devlin enter the galley together. "I just know getting stupid and having fun are supposed to be involved. Also? Pilot training. I guess we'll see." She stands on tiptoes to get a look at the small crowd gathering in the back. "There she is! Tis!" Then she squeaks excitedly. "And Elfkin and Lunie!" She runs over to spin and embrace Lunair.
Constin snorts once dryly, at Tis' comment that he cant bitch until partaking in the idiocy. A breath is drawn to asnwer before someone greets him loudly as 'Elfkin'. A slow turn of his head lands without the slightest surprise on Psyche. "Lo there, sir," he drawls deadpan.
"Alright, I mean, I like those things," Devlin replies as he follows Psyche into the galley and towards the back. He's carrying a bottle, which he lifts to wave at Tisiphone as they near and he spots the pilot. Lunair gets a friendly smile, and Constin a chin-up of greeting. "Evening," he says, offering his hand to the unfamiliar man, as Psyche greets the other marine, "Alex Devlin. Nice to meet you."
Lunair is watching Tisiphone with no small amount of amusement. She looks to Constin, then is spun and embraced. Her eyes go wide as saucers again and she squeaks before returning the hug. "Hello there!" She beams back at Psyche, a bit surprised - but happy! Then someone is introducing himself. She smiles back at Devlin, though she seems hesitant to interrupt. Clearly, an intimidating, ferocious beast of a Marine. She grins at Psyche. "How have you been? I hear you've been training a lot of the new pilots. That must be very busy."
The less sociable half of the marine equation accepts Devlin's offered hand with a curt nod and returns, "Sir. Sergeant Eleftherios Constin." No points for guessing where Psyche's nickname for the big man comes from.
"Don't roll your eyes at me," Tisiphone responds belated to Constin's snort, pointing her now-empty shotglass at him. It's uncertain how many she had before the others started arriving. She's not yet unsteady on her feet. "You make a landing, I'll make yer damn blindfolded shoulder oorah whatever. Hey. Hey!" The shouts are aimed at Psyche and Devlin, and a toss of her head directs them toward the 'drinks counter'. "Room for the bottles over here." She's moving back to the table, then, slopping more of the slushy ice across the polished metal.
Psyche casts Constin a sheepish little smile as the big man deadpans her way, then is chattering away brightly at Lunair. "I'm great! And I'm only helping a little bit — I don't have the same background as a teacher that Shiv has. Actually, I'm finding that once you get past, 'Stay in the air' and 'Eject is here if you need it,' I'm a little useless. But ohmigodsIhaven'tseenyousinceyougotENGAGED! Congratul-A-tions, sweetie! I'm SO excited!" No, really? She squeezes the stuffin' out of the marine officer.
Suits and heels be damned for the evening, as the wayward Journalist traverses the halls of the Cerberus in her pink plaid pajama, flipflops, and tank top. She has a small tote bag over her shoulder, the canvas decorated with a simple symbol for recycling on the side. Sawyer steps into the doorway of the galley, takes one look back into the hallway, and then lets the door swing shut as she enters. "I'm late, aren't I? I'm always late." That happens when you have no sense of the passage of time in the middle of space, and when you have the luxury of ignoring the shift bells. She's already pulling an unmarked, unlabelled bottle out of her bag, and is moving in the direction of where others have started to cluster.
"Nice to meet you, Sergeant," Devlin says to Constin again, adding with a bit of a grin, "I'm just gonna assume only Psyche calls you… whatever she just called you." He's distracted by Tisiphone, and lifts the bottle in a salute, heading away from squealing girls to the drinks table. "So, what're we doing, Tis?" he asks, pouring himself a shot and knocking it before eyeing that icy table, "Psyche claims she doesn't know."
Lunair tilts her head. She smiles. "Well, those are important-" Then another little squeak. Lunair's not very big, so there's not TOO much stuffing to squeeze out of. But she's happy to gently return the hug, her face turning a bit red. "Y-yes, I'm really lucky and happy. He's way out of my league but - I hope I do right by him." A little smile. "I'm glad to hear you're well. I don't see you guys nearly enough," But it can be tough with CAPs and piloty and marinely duties. She /does/ however look very amused by Constin's nickname. Uh oh. Mercifully for Constin, Lunair's short term memory is shot to Hell and she'll probably forget it in about 5 minutes. Or remember it forever. 50/50 odds. "… wow." She smiles at Sawyer. "Huh? No, think it's just starting. There's still sober people." A wry smile at thaat.
"Nonsense, sir," Constin drawls back evenly to Devlin's guess as to his 'nickname'. "You can call me that too, soon as you win a Distinguished Airman Medal." Tis' scolding is met with a deadpan, "Uh-huh." The peal of girlish glee that emenates from Psyche as she greets Lunair with spinning and speech is met with a slowly released breath and a bone dry turn of the eye back to Devlin. "The VERY distinguished medal."
"Oh, Lunie, you guys are perfect for each other. I know he loves you to pieces. Have you set a date? Do you know what you're wearing?" These are important questions. Inquiring minds want to know! Or at least, distinquished minds. Psyche snrrks mirthfully and points at Constin. She heard that, damn it. "I am so distinguished, you have no frakking idea." Sawyer — well, she notices Sawyer. And her expression goes blank for a moment, followed hard upon by a look like the journalist shot her puppy and made her eat it. Quickly, she readopts her smile, greets the civie with a quick, "Hey," and turns her attention back to Lunair. Nuptial details, plz!
"Okay. Okay. Good." Tisiphone doesn't sound impatient so much as…well, /stoked/. If she was a puppy, she would be bounding around at the door, /so/ ready for WALKIES! Raising her voice — which makes her voice crack a bit — she calls to the assembled odds and sods, "Okay! Carrier Landings, people. Watch and learn. Galley crew, you'll get this right away. Explanation's for Alex, over here, our sacrificial nugget-" A helpful point to Devlin. "-who'll be drinking once every time someone tries a landing, and twice whenever someone lands on their face."
Lining up at the end of the table, she finishes her explanation. "Start here. Charge the table. Goal's to make it to the other end of the table, and grab the cord-" The extension cord aka landing cord, held over yonder by two volunteers. "-with your legs before you fly off the far end. Like so." A quick breath, a moment's hesitation, and she tries the first landing of the night.
Into the galley ghosts Cidra. The CAG can be a quiet creature when she wants to be. She's dressed in her offduties, stride languid and with a sort of idle, strolling quality. If she were a cat, her tail would be held aloft and slowly swaying. She does not immediately call attention to herself. Rather, she stands on the edge of the action. Tattooed arms crossing along her chest. Barest hint of an inscrutable little smile on her lips. It is Tisiphone to whom her focus goes, of course. "Hello, Money Shot," she says simply. It's not shouted. She's not a barky creature by nature. But she has a way of projecting her drawling alto above the noises of chaotic hangar decks and pre-drunken parties alike.
There's a puzzled look from Sawyer at that hard look from Psyche, but it's something either she's learned to power through or just ignore. There's a very practiced smile given in return, "Miss Athenos," is the return greeting, and then she's clunking down her bottle and cracking open the bottle which has long since had its hard seal broken. The liquid inside is clear and smells almost astringent, like rubbing alcohol. But hey, beggars can't be choosers. "Who's getting married now?" She asks conversationally before doing a quick shot followed by a wince. Eyes go to Tisiphone as the evening is explained, the smile on her lips turning more sincere.
Devlin blinks and then laughs, head tilting back and shaking slowly as Tisiphone makes rules for his evening. "Alright, let's see it, Tis. No missing on purpose to make me drink more," he adds with a grin for the pilot. He pours himself a shot from the bottle he brought which smells like rum, of the cheap-but-not-paint-thinner variety. Sawyer gets a friendly smile and a "Hi. And Lunair, the marine, is marrying Marko. Umm, Scaurus? Raptor pilot," he explains. He gathers up a couple shot glasses and heads over towards Psyche, Constin and Lunair, saying, "Alright, if I'm gonna be drinking so much, you've all got to start, so…" he passes out glasses, bottle lifted to pour, pre-emptively saying, "Cheers."
<FS3> Tisiphone rolls Athletic: Success.
<FS3> Tisiphone rolls Reactive: Good Success.
<FS3> Tisiphone rolls Athletic: Success.
Tisiphone backs up a couple steps and bolts at the table, throwing herself belly-first across it. It is… not graceful-looking in any way, shape or form. Her arms flail, trying to keep her going straight. One leg kicks out a little further than the other, and she's starting to go askew, thanks to thank, before her calves snap up and grab the cord. Either she was sliding faster than the volunteers expected, or they weren't sure what to expect, and the impact drags her around and half-off the table on the near side, dangling there by her calves from the cord, arms splayed out in front of her to keep her from faceplanting.
It's here, upside down and dangling, that the CAG's voice registers, and she looks up, wild-eyed, trying to find a serious face behind the crazed grin. "Sir."
Tisiphone mutters under her breath — doubtless, "oh frak me it's the CAG" before shouting out, "NEXT!"
More blushing from Lunair. "He's wonderful and I adore him though I hope I don't seem too sappy-" She's red as a beat. "Not yet, we were going to talk to the Chaplain on a date and um - dress blues I guess? I gave away almost all my dresses…" Donated to civilians likely. She looks a bit shier at all that. Though, she smiles. "It's not very girly I guess," She admits quietly. She pauses, and smiles at the Journalist. "Hello ma'am," The Marine officer nods politely. Then her eyes widen at the mention of a sacrificial nugget and what exactly is involved. Oh dear. She eyes Devlin a moment. She tries not to giggle as Cidra arrives. Instead, she smiles and wriggles her fingers. She nods at devlin, "That's correct. He's an ECO. I think he is the brains of the two of us," A wry smile. The most notable feature about Lunair are her dark purple eyes. "I try not to go blathering on too much about it, but I am happy."
"Uh-huh," Constin drawls to Psyche's protest of her unknowable dignity. Sawyer's entrance is met without any word from the marine, and with his neutral amusement cooling until he looks from the civilian to the CAG. "Sir," he greets among the others, before natrrow eyes are pulled sharply to Tisiphone's table dive. Throat stirring with a low chuckle, at the endeavor, the sergeant cracks a tight, grudging grin and claps slowly to the result.
Not too far behind the CAG — so close, in fact, that they might be arriving together — is the Knights' squadron commander. No languid, feline creature he; if any animal epitomised him, it would be the lumbering bear. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his fatigues, jacket shed, he too sports a copious amount of ink. And a distinctly amused look on his oft irritated-seeming features. Rather than address anyone in particular, he hops up atop a table to observe, and begins digging for his pack of cigarettes.
Sawyer twists around to find Lunair in the group, raising her now empty glass as a toast following Devlin's explanation. "Congratulations!" Said in a most heartfelt manner. For the time being, however, the journalist is content to linger on the sides and just watch the festivities and whether or not they'll be broke up by the CAG. It's been so long since Sawyer's really mingled with any of the crew, it's not hard to take on the effect of wallpaper.
Cidra crooks her faintest of smiles at Sitka as he passes her. Then returns her attention to Tisiphone. Just Tisiphone. Just looking, in that mild way of hers. "Carrier landings, then." A hint amusement in her tone. "I have not seen one of these done up properly since my days on the Aegean. One of our Viper squadron leaders used to put them on regularly. Said they were good for morale." She sniffs. "She and I did not really get on. But she had occasional bursts of insight." No signs their fun will be broken up are displayed.
"Uh. Sir," Tisiphone repeats, clambering to her feet and wiping ineffectively at her now-mostly-sodden tank-top. "We're, uh. Promised some of the galley crew I'd show 'em- yeah. Yeah. Carrier landings." She gives up on the serious expression, face splitting back into a wolfish-wide grin. She touches her tongue to her bottom lip for a moment then asks, greatly daring, "Get you a drink, Sir? Brought the- uh- Piconese gin. It's pretty good." If you like fermented pine resin. She starts walking backward toward the drinks table, swatting at Devlin when she nears him. "Your turn."
"Woo!" Psyche cheers and pumps a fist in the air, holding up her shot glass for filling with the other hand. Lunair's intention to wear dress blues draws HUGE blue eyes back to the bride-to-be. "Oh, no! Sweetie, you have to wear a dress!" Then, hastily, as though realizing — rightly — that she's sort of dictating the terms of a Wedding Not Her Own, she amends, "I mean, if you want to! Gods, I went to school for fashion design — so did Davis, and Ani too, I think! We can make you a dress — we can be your fairy godsmothers!" she gushes, truly in love with her own idea now.
The journalist quietly pours another stout shot of the clear liquid, filling up the glass until it threatens to bubble up over the side. Seems Sawyer has the same idea that Tisiphone had, which is to liquor up the CAG. She starts sidling up next to Cidra, holding out the glass, and when and if it's taken, she leans in to murmur something to the other woman.
Devlin fills up a round for Psyche and the marines, just shaking his head at the fairy godmother bit. His own glass is filled last, and he lifts them up, offering as a toast: "Here's to Lunair's getting married, and me not cracking my head open," he grins, knocking back his shot and turning to call back to Tisiphone, "Alright, I'm coming." Bottle is passed off to the would-be fairy godmother and he heads over towards the big tables, shaking out his arms and eyeing the table before making his run.
Sitka returns Cidra's crooked smile with one of his own, then resumes the task of lighting up a smoke. The Reporter's presence is noted with a look that lasts a few beats, though he seems content to remain where he's parked his ass, lest someone think of conscripting him for the 'carrier landings'.
Constin takes the shot proffered by Devlin with a short nod, throwing the glass back with a muttered, "Here, here." Eyeing Devlin's approach with the same skepticism he'd regarded the entire proceedings thus far, the marine focuses on the runk lest he get an earful of girlie wedding talk.
"I do not really drink overmuch," Cidra says wryly. "It musses with the senses in a way I do not care for." There's a joke buried under several layers of subtly there, but it seems more for herself than anyone else. "I just wanted you to know that I knew." And she seems on point of turning to go. But she does pause to listen to whatever Sawyer whispers to her. It catches the CAG off-guard. Not in an unpleasant way. An actual smile, of surprise, breaks across her face. She looks…touched. "Thank you," she murmurs soft to the reporter, eyes flitting about the room to take in the lot of them here. And then she clears her throat, and actually takes the drink. "But I can stay for one, I suppose. There are a…number of special occasions I have neglected to celebrate of late." And then she watches Devlin.
Eh? A shot glass? "Oh thank you." She smiles politely at Devlin. Then a polite wave to the Knights' squadron commander. She blushes at Sawyer, "Thank you." Her eyes are bright, even if Lunair is redder than an embarrassed beet. She blinks at Psyche, positively boggled. "Ah- er- I do?" She seems a bit baffled, and turns red at her Faux Pas. "I see. I am not sure, I'm sure I'm pretty beat up looking. I mean I'm glad my hair's growing back and I haven't been shot in the face at least a month," A new record! Go Lunair Go! "I- I uhm, guess it couldn't hurt but I'd hate for anyone to go out of their way really. It's very sweet." She /appreciates/ it really, she does. Though, Constin's reaction makes her go even more red. "Thanks, and good luck!" Devlin's head not getting cracked is good. She looks to Psyche and the Sawyer, smiling a little. "I - um, appreciate it lots." She doesn't know quite what to do but fidget and smile shyly. "Thank you." Lunair is pretty darn happy.
"Do it, DO IIIT!" shouts Tisiphone at Devlin as the nugget starts his run, touching fingertips to her mouth for a piercing wolf-whistle. She cranes up on tip-toe, as if it'll help her see better. The shots of gin remind her, with a sway, to return to a flat-footed position.
"We'll talk," Psyche assures Lunair, beaming. And if the little blonde pilot has her way, there will be dress fittings. Oh, yes. She lifts her drink in the proposed toast — "CHEERS!" — and knocks back her shot, then turns to watch as Devlin launches himself at the table. "Oh, gods, not the face…" she grimaces, putting a hand over her eyes and peeking through her fingers.
<FS3> Devlin rolls Athletic: Good Success.
<FS3> Devlin rolls Athletic: Bad Failure.
<FS3> Devlin rolls Reactive: Success.
Devlin makes his run, sliding almost perfectly straight down the center of the table, arms held out to the side to keep his path steady. He hooks the cord with his legs… and then his luck runs out and he accidentally whacks one of the cord-holders with one of those outstretched hands, gets twisted about, the cord loses tension, and he tumbles off the side of the table in a crooked somersault that ends with him on the floor, half upside-down. "Ow," he comments simply, lying on the floor for a moment before hauling himself to his feet and shaking himself off. "That's fun!" he announces to Tis (and Sawyer, and Cidra) with a grin before turning to shout, "Bubbles! You next."
Lunair's wave begets a slantwise grin from Shiv, on the tail-end of a drag from his smoke. Doubtless, he can't quite hear any conversation from where he is, perched atop one of the shoved-aside and overturned tables— and most of his attention's on his erstwhile 'student'. aka Devlin, currently skidding across a buffet table on his belly. Aaaand.. missing the dismount by a mile. He gives a few noisy claps, anyway, even if he's the only one.
Sawyer lays a hand on Cidra's shoulder, the smile returned. "My pleasure." She steps aside to give Cidra room, and possibly to get out of arm's reach of the Major in case of flailing at the next bit. "Last week was Cidra Hahn's birthday," Sawyer announces to the room at whole, meaning perhaps that touched look Cidra had was a little premature. "I suggest she be made to do a landing to commemorate turning into an old biddy." With that, she's on her way to the table Sitka occupies, slipping up next to him. "I trust you have one of those cigarettes for me?" She asks the man as she wiggles in her pink plaid pajamas to get into a more comfortable spot. "Nicely done!" She calls amicably over to Devlin.
Constin half winces, and half smirks at the abrupt and inglorious end to Devlin's first run at the tables. "Heh heh.." the sergeant grunts under his breath, beginning to enjoy the ongoing Air Wing festivities. "You heard the man, sir.." he drawls, looking aside to Psyche on the heels of Devlin's call.
Cidra turns her attention to her shot. Which she eyes. Swirls a little in her glass. And then, in proper pilot form, knocks back all at once. Eyes bulge. Gulp. She obviously does not drink that much, indeed. But no spit-takes are had this time at least. "Smooth," she says with a little cough. Observing Devlin's acrobatic display of table-sliding with an appreciative cackle. Adding her own 'applause.' Though she stops abruptly at Sawyer's announcement. Pointing a long finger accusingly at the reporter. "That was *strictly* off the record!"
Psyche squeaks in alarm as the nugget falls off the table, then applauds wildly as he pops back up, apparently none the worse for the wear. She laughs, though, as he calls her up. "Oh, Hades to the no," she declines. "I am not nearly drunk enough to do that, yet." Then — buh?? Birthday? She wheels around to beam at Cidra. "Sir! Happy birthday!" she delights in the CAG's direction. "And many happy returns! I wish I'd known, I would have got you something…" She grimaces as Constin joins the call for her to take her turn, and offers, "I guess, in honor of the occasion, I should stop whining and take my turn — at least buy you some time, huh?" Right, then. She pours herself another shot, knocks it back, and hands the bottle off to Constin. "Morituri te salutamus!" she mutters, squaring off with the table and preparing to sprint.
"The frak was THAT, man?!" calls Tisiphone at Devlin with a laugh, again putting fingers to her mouth for a wolf-whistle. "Two shots." She starts flipping over more of the steel shotglasses, splashing alcohol into them — and pauses at Sawyer's announcement, looking over her shoulder. "What, seriously?" The grin wobbles for a moment toward a smile. "Shit, happy birthday, Sir. Now you really have to try the gin." Her eyes move past the reporter and the CAG to the ninja-like SL behind them; another shotglass is filled as she heads their way. Best way to avoid trouble: intoxicate your commanding officers.
Lunair nods, "Sure thing." Lunair smiles back at Psyche. Hmm. Well. Time to try a shot. It's apparant to anyone watching that she doesn't really drink much. Wheeze. Then a beam at the CAG. "Happy Birthday sir, I wish I had gotten you a present - well, maybe I still can." Beam. Lunair has plans now, looking boggled by gin, birthday and dress talk. This is probably the girliest Lunair's been in /ages/. She grins at Devlin, watching with amusement.
Sitka's attention is pulled abruptly in Cidra's direction as Sawyer makes her announcement. And remains there for a good long while. Perplexity at first, followed by thoughtfulness, and lastly guilt. Just a shade of it in the way his expression goes all subdued for a moment, briefly clouded in cigarette smoke as he exhales. Called out to the CAG, "I second that motion, by the way." And then the reporter's plunked herself down next to him, which is even more unexpected. "Oh.. uh, hey," is mumbled around a tentative smile. "Sure. Didn't know you'd taken it up officially." His pack of smokes is retrieved, and one held out for the woman between thumb and forefinger.
Constin takes the bottle from Psyche with a chuckle, regarding the CAG briefly as Sawyer announces her birthday, but adding nothing to the vocal exchanges between pilots directed at Cidra. A nod should she look his way, but otherwise, the star of the moment is the ever distinguished Psyche and he imminent dash at the table. A thought strikes, which elicits a short barked laugh from the sergeant, but he keeps it to himself, as the landing begins.
Devlin laughs, shaking his head at Tisiphone, rubbing at a shoulder as he shrugs, "I dunno, I forgot to pull my arms in far enough," he says, "I kinda punched that dude," he gestures back, "In the leg. And then totally botched the dismount," he grins, and then laughs, "I have to do two for my own failure? You are evil, Tis." He takes his shots like a man, though, knocking them back in turn before catching up a bit and grinning, "Happy birthday, major," to Cidra. Then it's time to turn and watch Psyche try not to break her face.
"I had actually done pretty well with quitting." Sawyer admits to Sitka just as she plucks the cigarette from his fingers. Must be something about the evening that warrants falling off the wagon. As she gets called out by Cidra, "Hey. I never cited my sources." Purely innocent, this one, or at least she's rather creative about circumventing conventional areas of black versus white.
Tisiphone's handful of shotglasses slosh and start dripping between her fingers as she half-turns to watch Psyche's approach. "Distinguished Airman's Medal, own it, COME ONNN!" she shouts, laughing. At least with her hands full, she can't assault everyone's eardrums with another whistle. She starts walking backwards toward Sawyer, Cidra and Sitka, eyes on the landing table.
<FS3> Psyche rolls Athletic: Failure.
<FS3> Psyche rolls Athletic: Success.
<FS3> Psyche rolls Reactive: Success.
Psyche's approach… is far, far more enthusiastic than it is accurate. Gods bless her, she tries — she sprints at the table, she hurls herself atop it… just not entirely straight. Hitting the runway at an angle, it's all frakked from there. She hurtles across the slick surface askew, then in a flat spin, so out of control that the pair holding the cord quickly — and understandably — get the frak out of the way. Good thing, too, because if they'd remained in place the out-of-control pilot would probably have taken out at least one as she shoots off the table and crashes to the floor. She slides a few yards more, then spins out to a sodden pile of inertia and ow. When she slip-scrambles her feet back beneath her a moment later, she's laughing — but wincing deeply, as well. "Oh, sweet mother of frak that HURT!"
Cidra idly reaches up to toy with her shoulder-long hair, which is down at the moment. Almost shyly. "No one was supposed to know." A level look at Sawyer. "See if I tell you things in the future!" A shrug. "I did not want anyone to feel obligated to…" Another shrug, and she trails off. Casting another look around the galley. "Perhaps I can stay for one more drink." And she does get another shot, which is *downed* as Psyche piles. "Oh my!"
"I tried, myself, uh.." A drag from his own cigarette as Shiv seems to mull this; and a quick, dimpled grin as he watches Psyche take her turn at the buffet table. "..a few years back. Quitting, I mean. Never really stuck.." Blue eyes flick sidelong back to Sawyer, slide over the back of Tisiphone's head as she approaches in reverse, then take the scenic route back to Psyche. Or, well, Psyche's backside, right as it slides off the end and hits the floor. "Shit, that had to hurt."
What DOES one get a CAG for a birthday? Pie? Hmmm. Lunair looks thoughtful, amused and smiling. Though she winces as Psyche's landing gets frakked. "Ack, are you alright-" She looks worried, but it's hard to stay too fretful with the atmosphere. Constin's laugh getss a grin though. Hmm. ANother sip. Lun's eyes water for a second. Whee, booze!
Devlin laughs as Psyche goes barreling down the table and then tumbling right off, and realizes a minute too late that maybe he shouldn't be laughing. "You okay, Psyche?" he calls to the pilot, starting to head her way, but then pausing to refill one of the shotglasses in his hands. "Here," he offers her with a grin, "I'm sure it'll help." And then, because he is nothing if not an obedient nugget, he refills his own and drinks that, too. Twice, even. Then it's back over towards the little knot of pilots and reporter. "Did I hear you're next, major?" he asks Cidra, innocently.
"Some confidences should be broken, Major. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't do /something/ to embarrass you?" That's right, a friend. So suck it. Maybe the reporter used that terminology, of course, to soften Cidra's claim she'd never share anything with Sawyer again. Psyche's header causes Sawyer's attention to be pulled away for a moment, the journalist tilting her head at an odd angle to follow the painful descent. "The bruises are going to be glorious tomorrow." With the cigarette crooked between two fingers, she looks back to Sitka for a light. "I guess smokers never truly quit, they only take minor lapses. Spark me?"
"Dude, what the frak?!" Tisiphone shakes her head at Psyche as she cackles, sending more of the contents of her shotglasses dripping through her fingers. "Goddamn, someone's gotta get this right. No, wait-" To Devlin's suggestion. "-Toast's gotta have the gin first." Like it's in the rules somewhere. "We gotta make the Sergeant try it." The wolfish grin is aimed, then, at Constin. "Since he's so frakking sure we pilots don't cut it."
Cidra's eyes are a little watery as well as she polishes off her second. Though she's already looking a bit more relaxed than is normal. The beauty of not drinking often is that, when you do, you get to *really* enjoy it. "I am still younger than Spiral," she proclaims. A frown a beat later. That did not sound as youthful a proclamation out loud as it might've in her head. So she adds, "I am not even forty yet." A *look* at Tisphone as to the gin. Not that she'll refuse it if she's plied with it. She seems to have given up claiming she'll leave. She does not seem particularly worried about Psyche. Presuming the Viper pilot can take the fall. She looks on point of saying something more to Sawyer. Who heads her off by calling her a 'friend.' She looks surprised. But she smiles.
Psyche twists and pulls the waistband of her pants down so she can view her hip — which shows only a faint redness at the moment, but will be ink black and blue tomorrow, there's no doubt. "Oh, that smarts…" She drains her shot and nods, pointing at Constin as she limps back over to the group. "Elf! You're up!" Now bottle, bottle, who's got the bottle? "Sir, you're not just younger than Spiral, you're prettier and you smell better. You're barely the same species."
Constin arches a brow at Tis' challenge. "Zat so?" the sergeant prompts with a sniff. Stretching his shoulder to elicit a muted pop, he eyes the 'carrier' before drawling to the two holding the lines. "But either of you drops that line? You'll get a thumping that would make Dog Platoon wince, you hear me?" the sergeant threatens without levity. One last shot is taken of the bottle before he returns it to Psyche, with a muttered, "Yeah, yeah, ah hear ya.."
Sitka chuckles at Sawyer's assessment of the situation, and does indeed spark her after a couple of flicks of his lighter. Once he's sure Psyche is fine, his attention's dragged back to Cidra and the second shot she's polishing off. Highly amused.
<FS3> Constin rolls Athletic: Great Success.
<FS3> Constin rolls Athletic: Success.
<FS3> Constin rolls Reactive: Good Success.
His height must be some kind of help, because Constin's two dashed steps up to the table and dive forward looked downright smooth. There isn't even a *thud* as he hits the table, so easy is the transfer of weight to momentum. The only hiccup in what would otherwise have been a text-book stupid pilot trick is that the line holders skid a bit catching him- due to the big man;s weight rather than any intention of provoking a thumping. Rolling off the table with a cocky smirk, he drawls to Tis, "Ain't you heard, sir? Marines don't crash." A low chuckle before he eyes the assembles and voices to Cidra, "Who's the Cag want to go next, sir? Your call."
Boggle. Lunair seems impressed with Constin's landing and sliding. She rubs the back of her head. "Oh wow." She grins with amusement. Lunair is a happy audience member for now.
Devlin doesn't seem clear on the whole air wing/marine rivalry thing, because he cheers as Constin takes his leap and whoops when the big man pulls it off, though his cheer is: "YES! Only one shot!" He holds out his shotglass to Psyche now that she's got the bottle back, and then looks over to Cidra to see who she nominates to go next.
"Holy FRAK, Elfkin, that was positively dainty!" Psyche cheers, laughing and filling Devlin's shot, then her own. And, seeing as how she's got a bottle of rum in her hand, "Rum that doesn't suck?" she offers around, brightly. "Anyone?"
Tisiphone takes a final step back and turns, delivering her shot-glasses with wet fingers. "Happy birthday, Sir," she repeats to Cidra as she delivers the shot, her grin closer to a shy smile for a moment. To Sawyer, in what's probably meant to be a conspiratorial tone, "How the FRAK did you know it was her birthday? Shit, you know EVERYTHING." The third shot goes to Sitka, with a cheeky grin and a, "Drink up, you get a turn now that you're here." The liquor smells /intensely/ of juniper and…well, really does taste a bit like fermented pine resin. She looks back to the table with a snap at the sound of Constin's rush — and if her jaw could literally hit the floor, it would. "Oh, FRAK naw," she moans. Then, louder, laughing and disgusted at once, "It had to be you. It frakking HAD to be YOU."
"Prettier than Spiral, am I?" Cidra blinks at Psyche. Unsure precisely how to take this compliment. It does not, to say the least, prompt her to *stop* drinking. "Well, if nothing else, I have that going for me." Constin's dive is watched with some anticipation. Perhaps to see if the big Marine dents the table. His performance merits some applause, though. "Reflexes like that, Sergeant, and I should try and steal you from Major Cavanaugh and stick you in a Viper." Blink, blink. She picks what now? A sidelong look. At the reporter. It is time for vengeance. "I do think my good friend Sawyer would like to try this little ritual, yes?" That next drink is taken from Tisiphone. And imbibed. They go now easier as you keep going.
Sawyer's cheeks hollow out with her first drag of the cigarette, followed quickly by a little cough that is a true testament to the fact that it has been a while since she's lit up. She shifts to the side, knocking her shoulder against Sitka's. "Thanks." She mutters, in a hoarse breath. After she wets her lips, she gives Tisiphone a lopsided smile. "Not everything, my friend. Not everything. Though more than most, but the best I'm saving for good blackmail materi…" Her voice trails off as Cidra volunteers her for slip'n'slide duty. "Only if the birthday girl goes first. C'mon. I Double Dog Dare you." Uh-oh, she pulled out the triple D's.
Sitka relinquishes the shot glass from Tisiphone while barely taking his eyes off the spectacle that is six foot four inches of marine.. not colliding messily with the floor. Only belatedly does he seem to realise what Tisiphone's telling him, and snorts softly as if to say 'you've got to be kidding me'. "Naw, I think I'll just.. just watch," he demurs, tossing the shot back and squinching up his eyes as it goes down. "I haven't done these-" Carrier landings, one presumes. "-since I was in flight school." And then his attention turns to Cidra at the shoulder-bump from Sawyer.
Mmm, booze! Lunair grins, at the daring of the CAG and Sawyer. The drinks are indeed, getting easier to swallow and even Lunair's face is a bit flushed. Oh my. She is in awe of Constin still, "Well done Sargeant," She beams at the man. For now, Lunair waits to see who gets to go flying next.
Psyche knocks back her shot, grinning at Cidra's bafflement over her compliment. She seems to approve of the CAG's choice, taking up the call. "C'mon, Sawyer, don't be a pussy. Birthday girl has chosen!" She refills Lunair's drink, then Devlin's, then her own.
Cidra fixes Sawyer with a level look. Albeit a slightly less focused level look than usual. "I *dare* you? I am not-quite-forty years old, Averies, not fourteen! I am under no obligation to submit to your…double-dog demands." Not that that's a refusal to do it, per se. She eyes her drink. The drinks it. Then *looks* at Sawyer again. "Fine. All right, all right, all right. But you *are* next." And then she bellies up over to…well, do it. Flashing Sitka another of those looks over her shoulder as she does so. "Scared, old man?" Was that a challenge? It sounded like one. But she has to embarrass *herself* first.
"Way prettier," Devlin blurts out before it re-registers who he's talking to and he adds, "Sir." And then can't quite prevent his lips from pulling of their own accord into a big, wide smile. Oops. He knocks back his shot and then calls to Sawyer, "Yeah, come on!" Not that he knows her name. He just kind of watches and snickers as the women banter, and then cheers as Cidra heads up to the tables, doing one of those two-fingered whistles for the CAG.
..did Cidra just call Shiv an old man? Why yes, yes she did. The Captain's insouciant grin twists into a slight frown at the look his boss flashes him. And then he dutifully shifts back to his feet, and puts out his cigarette while Cidra takes her turn at embarassing herself. Easygoing he may be, but he's still a viper jock. And no viper jock nowhere would back down from a challenge like that.
Sawyer's smirk is obscured by the filter of her cigarette as she takes another puff, covering up her rather pleased look that Cidra's relented to the might power of the schoolyard peer pressure. Smoke gets pulled into her lungs and exhaled through her nose in a twin set of streams and she's easing down of the table along with Sitka. Flipflops smack on the floor as she lackidasically follows after the Captain. Looks like she means to keep her word about going as well.
"So have another drink and make like you're twenty-four again," says Tisiphone to her squadleader, eyes narrowed in (mostly-)playful challenge as he tries to demur. She sniffs lightly at him a moment later and wanders off, her steps swaying as she looks toward Cidra's attempt. The sound of him climbing to his feet behind her, goaded by the CAG's words, set her to laughing anew, then shouting: "Own it, Sir! OWN IIIT!" Her hands are free, alas for everyone's ears — there's another piercing wolf-whistle.
<FS3> Cidra rolls Athletics-30: Bad Failure.
<FS3> Cidra rolls Athletics-30: Terrible Failure.
<FS3> Cidra rolls Reactive-30: Success.
Cidra's runway approach would get her roasted by the LSO if she was trying to put a Raptor down on a carrier like that. She doesn't so much launch herself onto the table as kind of trip over her own feet and go sprawling. Letting out a high-pitched scream as she does so. Her reflexes, at least, haven't failed her in her old age. She *does* make a semi-successful grab for that rope. But, between her momentum and general utter lack of coordination at the moment, it doesn't *help* her any. More than anything it serves as a slingshot that kind of gives her fling off the table some direction. She lands with an audible *CRASH*. She did not own it. She is, in point of fact, PWN'd by it. Feet sort of over her head, in a CAG-heap. There's an audible "Ow…" That's going to leave a bruise. Not that she sounds overly broken. In fact, after laying there a second, she starts laughing. Cackling, more properly. Not that she tries to get up by herself. She just sprawls and cackles.
Oh dear. Lunair giggles until the poor CAG crashes. She'll scoot ot help her up, though it's apparent Lun's slightly weebly after several shots. "Ack, are you okay?"
Devlin laughs at that shriek, and then doesn't laugh when there seems like a definite possibility that this party will be ended by serious injury to their uber-boss. When Cidra starts cackling, he grins, and cheers, leaving his mandatory pair of shots for the moment to head over and offer the CAG both hands. "Need some help?"
Sitka offers not a word to Tisiphone's 'suggestion', though does crook a grin the Ensign's way as he passes back his empty shot glass, and angles off toward the buffet table to help the CAG up— well, that is, until several others come over to offer their assistance. "That was pretty cinematic, sir," he calls over instead, giving his knuckles a crack as he eyes the 'runway'. "But I think, for the sake of my integrity, that I'm going to have to show you how it's done." Yes, he's still grinning. And yes, he's only downed one shot.
Psyche's laughter is part giddy relief, part the contagion of the CAG's own cackling… and part that the whole spectacle — especially in light of there being no serious injury — was just hilarious. As advertised. She sets bottle and shot glass on the drink table, then leaps and cavorts and kicks, launching into a full-blown celebratory cheerleading routine. "Toast! She's toast! Gooooooo TOAST!" She shakes her imaginary pom-poms as her booty.
It would be gallant and dutiful of Tisiphone to throw her hand in with the others helping the CAG back to her feet. It would also require her not to be sunk back against one of the drinks-table's legs, crying with laughter at the shriek, the 'successful' 'dismount', and Psyche's subsequent Pep Rally For The Unfortunate. "Oh, gods," is about all she can manage in a sobbing wheeze. "Remember," she tries to tell Sitka, between giggles. "Remember. Yer- oh, gods- immortal. Just be. More immortal than the CAGjustwas-" The rest is lost to more laughter.
Cidra rolls over with a soft "Oomph" and extends her arms upward. Lunair and Devlin *will* have to haul her to her feet, but she's compliant enough about being tugged. "Does this one have a callsign yet, by the by?" she asks, talking *about* helpful Devlin rather than directly to him. Perhaps the 'Toast!' cheerleading reminded her. Ideally she'll be out of the way and with a decent view of Sitka's attempt at a carrier landing. Because this, she does want to see. To Tisiphone she yells, "I am still watching you, Money Shot! Do not forget!" But she's still laughing herself.
"And here I am without my camera." Sawyer looms behind Sitka's shoulder, not even having to get up on her tiptoes to see over his shoulders, despite being basically flat-footed. "Thank the gods for small favors, right?"
Lunair smiles and helps the CAG up. She shakes her head, not that she knows of! But Lunair says nothing, as she doesn't really know people's callsigns. She grins at all the giggling. She'll make sure the CAG is nice and steady.
Devlin reaches past Cidra's hand to grip her forearm and help tug the woman to her feet, still steady enough that he manages it and only afterwards pauses and blinks a little, and then grins, "Ha. There it is." It's almost said to himself, and then he's turning to watch Psyche's performance and laugh, before remembering to help Cidra out of the way so Sitka and then Sawyer can make their runs. "Nope, no callsign," he offers belatedly, "But the cap'n," he jerks his chin towards the top of the table, "Says I can get in a real plane at the end of the week." So… yeah. What?
One hundred ninety pound pilot. Buffet table whose tolerance for the amount of wear and tear it's been put through so far is.. unverified. If Shiv's lucky, he'll come out of this with all his limbs intact, for that patrol he's slated to fly later tonight. "You don't need a camera to remember shit like that," he opines to Sawyer, of the CAG's dramatic dismount. Flashing her a grin, and Tisiphone a wink, he backs off a few steps.. and takes a run at it. Which, well, he certainly isn't a graceful creature. But he'll probably plow right through the table, if he doesn't manage to hop up onto it in time. Freight train coming through!
"He does!" Psyche affirms to the CAG, handing the boss another shot and patting her on the back — carefully — in congratulations. "It's — " she stops herself, looking guiltily at Devlin as he answers to the contrary. She coughs a little and pours herself another drink. "It's… still… under discussion?" She looks grimaces at the nugget and drinks.
Cidra is a lightweight, so steadiness is beginning to fail her this night. "Thank you. I…think I may have bruised my spleen," she says to Lunair, still chuckling. Leaning on Devlin to watch the continuing spectacle to table-diving from a hopefully safe distance. The Nugget is eyed. "Well. We shall have to get you one. A good callsign is an object lesson. This, I do believe." Brows are arched at Psyche. Curious CAG is curious. Though she does not demand an answer right away. She *does* have to stick her tongue out at Sitka and blow a raspberry in his general direction as he takes his dive. Fount of encouragement, she is not.
That table held up a Constin! Lunair still looks amused. She frowns, "I hope not. Don't pilots need their spleens?" She considers. The finer points of piloting! She grins as the Nugget is eyed. She'll stay near Cidra, just in case. "It must be tough to pick a good callsign." She smiles at Psyche too.
Oh, huh. Look at that. Sawyer /does/ happen to have her camera, it just required a short trip to wear she left her tote to dig it out. Just in time for Sitka to make his run. No doubt she should have been taking them all along, for posterity's sake, but mabye she was just testing the waters first. And as she subjected the CAG to enough embarrassment tonight, she conveniently didn't go to fetch it until now. With the cigarette left blazing between her lips, she checks the battery and settings and lifts it just in time for Captain Sitka's run.
"I'm being good, Sir, I swear!" This from the side of the table as Tisiphone pushes herself up to her feet, still shaking with residual laughter. "Glad you're- heh, heh- okay. You want another drink?" She leans against the drinks-table and wipes at her eyes. "Frak /good/, look what /I/ ended up with," she grin-mutters on matters of callsigns, distracted by Sitka's landing attempt. The wolf-whistle is meant as encouragement as he hits the table, not distraction, surely.
<FS3> Sitka rolls Athletic: Good Success.
<FS3> Sitka rolls Reactive: Good Success.
<FS3> Sitka rolls Athletic: Success.
Shiv's neither a runner, nor a gymnast. But what he lacks in grace, he makes up for in brute strength. Nearly missing his approach as his boot catches the table leg, he manages to haul himself up by his arms at the last second, and launches himself down the runway. Partly sideways, but hey, they aren't being graded on this for form, right? He has to twist right over onto his back in order to snag the cord with his legs, however, which forces him into a far too quick — and sloppy — dismount. Anyone who's seen him fly, probably knows of his propensity for hot landings. At least the man's consistent. THUMP as Tisiphone's wolf whistle rings out and he hits the floor one point five seconds later, backside first. "Awwwwwwhaahahaha shit." It devolves, of course, into a fit of laughter as he drops his head back against the grimy parquet, shoulders shaking with the effort. "YOU." He jabs a finger at Sawyer and her camera. "I knew it."
Devlin doesn't seem to mind being leaned on, though he does reach out and snag that shot Psyche's trying to offer Cidra, knocking it back himself instead. "I can't even taste it anymore," he tells her with a grin before turning back to get Eyed and nod at the major, "Totally," he agrees, all attempts at formality abandoned. The curious look isn't missed and he offers: "Some of the pilots call me 'Abs'." Sitka's attempt is offered a cheer of encouragement, or half one, as he breaks off in a choked burst of laughter at Cidra's raspberry-blowing. He snickers helplessly for a minute or two and then shouts, "Nice one, Shiv!" applauding with one hand against his thigh.
"I like Money Shot!" Cidra declares at Tisiphone. Loudly, and with feeling. "Abs?" Brows are arched at Devlin. He is *eyed*. Not in grand focus, but *eyed*. She looks him up and down. "Oh. Well. Yes. But. That one is not very amusing. We can do better." It is not something she dwells on, however. She has to watch the Shiv-dive. And it actually does earn a high-pitched whistle. "Quite lovely!"
"Yeah…" Sawyer comments at Sitka's accusation, her cigarette waggiling precariously between her lips as she talks. "Miracle of the digital age, too. I get video on this thing." She says this completely flat, though laughter is positively dancing in her eyes and threatening to bubble out of her throat at any second. Just in case he gets any fancy ideas, she backs up a step or two, not that she doesn't already have a good head start on him, as he's laid out on the floor. "Abs is too flattering." She comments off-handedly, "That'll never do."
Psyche has the attention span of a gnat, so it's entirely possible that she does legitimately forget there's a conversation about callsigns afoot, caught up in the drama of Shiv's landing. In any event, Devlin is left to explain his semi-official appellation all on his own. For her part, her inner cheerleader is totally outer — she breaks into another routine, step-kicking, clapping and stomping. "Woo! Go Shiv! Not your birthday! Go anyway! Woo!"
Lunair helps make sure Cidra is steadied or offered support. She claps for the flying Sitka. "Good landing," She beams. Then a pause at Devlin. "Well, it's not fair for a Marine to comment." She states simply and smiles. There's a grin at the camera coming out. "She really is a journalist." Psyche gets a grin too.
Sitka rolls back to his feet with a grunt, and skirts back around the buffet table once he's sure he hasn't broken anything in that ancient body of his. Cidra receives nothing at all in rebuke for her raspberry, though he does head backwards a few steps, hands lifted palms out, as if to say 'I rest my case'. Tisiphone, too, is shot a brief look on his way by, along with a mutter of, "Cheap trick, Apostolos," as he heads the reporter's way. And holds his hand out for her camera. "Your turn, Sawyer," comes out just a little bit too sweetly.
"Me too!" Devlin agrees about Tisiphone's callsign, and apparently not just to agree with the very emphatic CAG. He grins a little when he's *eyed*, putting up with the scrutiny with good humor, and just… humor, from the looks of it. "Alright," he agrees easily when that pseudo-callsign is nixed, Sawyer's comment drawing a laugh. "Yeah, I kinda figured. Hey!" He points abruptly at the reporter, "You! You're next! Yeah," he agrees as Sitka beats him to the punch.
Sawyer gets a double thumbs-up of approval from Tisiphone as she produces the blackmail gadget, teeth flashing. "Ni-i-ice. Keep an eye on that thing, he knows where you sleep." Back to sloshing alcohol — whose bottle did she grab, anyway? frakked if she knows — into whatever empty shotglasses are handy, her attention cut between the job at hand, and the recently ass-over-teakettle Captain over yonder. "What?" she says to him as he goes by, the very incarnation of grins again. "I didn't do /anything/." Uh-huh. As the baying for Sawyer's blood increase, she holds one of the filled shotglasses out toward her. Last drink, madame?
Sawyer keeps back pedalling, long enough to pop open the bottom flap and eject the memory card. "Promise is a promise." She returns, just as saccharine, to the erstwhile Petrel Captain as she slides the little piece of plastic into the neckline of her shirt and no doubt into the safety of her bra before she relinquishes the camera to him and also holds out her half smoked cigarette for the Captain to hold on her behest. "So this is just like one of those lawn games some of us played as a kid, right? Only less drinking involved…" She snags the shotglass from Tisiphone's fingers and downs it demurely. "Alright, let's see…" She moves to the end of the buffet table that the galley crew are religiously re-icing at the moment.
"Well, you are not *that* old, I suppose," Cidra allows to Sitka. She did only *insist* that she was younger than Spiral a moment ago. Make of that what one will. Sawyer gets some applause (albeit kind of around Devlin, who she's still idling on) when she gets up to have a go. "That is the spirit, Sawyer! It is not so bad." Not that her heaping off the table really supported that. A faint grin to Lunair. "Are you going to have a go, Raine? The CMC is making a good show so far."
Lunair looks amused at the picture taking and Sawyer. The journalist is now a heroine of sorts. "No chasing Miss Averies around, I wouldn't have her camera damaged - or her," Lunair seems serious about that. She has a protective side. She blushes at Cidra's question and laughs softly. "I don't know… I'd hate to wreck our show so far," Her expression twists into a smile. "But then I'd hate to be a coward too."
Sitka does indeed know where Sawyer sleeps. And now, where she keeps her camera's memory chip. "That's hardly fair," he mutters to her as the camera exchanges hands. And then he eases out of her 'flight path' and starts prodding at the thing as he tries to figure it out. Godsdamned technology. "Not as old as you, anyway, sir," he calls back to Cidra over his shoulder, blue eyes fairly twinkling with mirth. "How the frak does this work?" he asks whomever's nearest him.
Psyche dances her way over to the drinks table, reclaiming the bottle of rum and her glass. She pours for herself and refills Devlin, glancing around to see if the rest can be dispensed among the assembled. "No one would call you a coward if you didn't go, Lunie. You have a wedding to be pretty for!" The wedding, no matter how far off it might be, is Lunair's Get Out of Everything Free Card. At least in Psyche's world. "Rum?" She laughs at Sitka's difficulty with the camera, shaking her head. "Sorry, sir. Some mornings, my hair dryer confuses me."
<FS3> Sawyer rolls Athletic-10: Success.
<FS3> Sawyer rolls Reactive-10: Success.
<FS3> Sawyer rolls Athletic-10: Success.
Sawyer eyes the end of the table as she answers Sitka, "It won't, now that I have the memory card." And then takes a few more steps backwards as if guaging the lead-off she's going to need to launch herself at this properly. She kicks off her flip-flops to the side, so she doesn't loose them in transit, then hitches up her pink pajama bottoms at the thigh before she takes off. The girl's not a lithe creature by any definition, and 'athletic' could never be applied, but she's got heart? And maybe a little alcohol infused determination on her side. She hits the slick surface at a spectacular belly-flop, the smack audible before she goes careening down the long surface towards the rope at top notch speed. Her heels catch the drag-line just barely, the two holding it rather sloppy about tightening up and it bows instead of slowing the journalist down much. There's a squeal of 'IIIEEEEE' from Sawyer, as she eventually gets dumped off the end of the table in a rather boneless heap of, "Frak."
Lunair smiles a little at Psyche, "Thank you. But - I'm afraid as an official bullet sponge…" Well, sadly Marines have a habit of getting shot or eaten by bears. "Well. At least there's no bears at this party." She notes wryly. Though she blushes at the wedding comment. "I appreciate it. I will see whose name is called," She winks. She seems relieved until - oh dear. "Let's check on Miss Averies…"
"Whuh?" This from Tisiphone, her voice tight against the bite of the alcohol she just downed. Who's she questioning? Who the hell knows. She grins lopsidedly at Sitka and licks a runaway drop of booze off the side of her hand as watches his Monkey v. Monolith impression with the camera. "Man, you stick someone in a Mark Two too long and they forget what buttons are." Her eyes narrow — yes, she just said that — then slant away to watch Sawyer's landing attempt. There's a cackle of (premature) triumph when the reporter snags the drag-line, and she shouts, "FrakDAMMIT, woman, who gave you permission to land like that?"
Devlin takes that shot from Psyche and knocks it back, handing the shotglass back before rubbing his hand a little clumsily over his hair and shooting the pilot a big grin. "You've gotta try it!" he insists to Lunair, attention sliding her way. Then it darts back to Sawyer who gets a "WOOOOO!" from the nugget. Then he reaches for the blonde with the rum, hooking fingers in her belt to haul her over so he can whisper grinningly in her ear for a second. Not in such a way that it would dislodge the Cidra he's still holding up, of course.
Sitka, unfortunately, misses most of Sawyer's performance due to his efforts to make the damned camera work. Raedawn would be awfully handy to have around, right about now. He gets it up in time to 'photograph' Sawyer's landing— only he clicks the wrong button, and causes the lens to close up. The poor man doesn't even seem to realise that it wouldn't have worked without the memory card, anyway. Something's mumbled under his breath at Tisiphone's jab. Probably wasn't in Standard, either. "Hey, not too shabby at all, Sawyer," he pitches over to the journalist while still stubbornly fidgeting with her camera.
Psyche applauds for Sawyer — though it's sort of mild compared to the 76 frakking trombones and a parade the rolled out for some of the other attempts — and tilts her head, glancing sidelong and downward as she tunes in to whatever Devlin's whispering. Her eyes widen and she chokes a laugh, dissolving into giggles as she shakes her head. She lifts up on tiptoes, balancing on the nugget's shoulder as she whispers back.
"Oh my!" Cidra exclaims at Sawyer's heaping. She winces, but applauds in solidarity nonetheless. "Not poorly, Averies, not poorly." Well, less poorly than she herself did, at least. She then instructs Devlin, "I would like to sit, please." She points to the general area where Tisiphone & Co. are deposited. He is nudged in that direction, in case he needs further encouragement to get her there.
Sawyer claws her way back to her feet with a hand on the edge of a table, then holds her hands up triumphantly. "I'm up! I'm good!" Just in case the masses were concerned. Of course, she's faced with another conundrum (one that's quickly realized with her arms thrust in the air), that being the front of her pajamas are now soaked from her slip'n'slide adventure. She makes an 'ick' face and plucks the cold tanktop away from her torso as she vacates the landing zone. "Booze. Where's the booze." And her cigarette. She begins prowling back towards the Captain. "Going to consider me for the Airwing now, Major?"
Lunair just looks sympathetic as poor Sawyer gets up before she can swoop in. "Well, as long as she's not hurt…"
Cold, drippy wet tank tops seem to be all the rage tonight. Sitka hasn't even bothered peeling his off or pulling his jacket back on, though he has wrung most of the water out of them by now. "Good run," he congratulates her with a small, lopsided smile. The camera's divested of with a soft huff. "Watch where you put those pictures, yeah?" He was also kind enough to hold onto her cigarette— and take a couple of drags off it while she was otherwise occupied. It, too, is passed back.
Devlin grins as he manages to give Psyche a fit of the giggles, nodding a long as she whispers, briefly managing a woman on each arm while she does. He looks up at Cidra's request and the nudge, and grins, "Yes ma'am," shooting the blonde a wink before he walks the CAG over towards where Tisiphone's sitting down. He tugs out a chair and turns it around, offering it to Cidra along with another hand if needed before looking over at tonight's hostess. "You should go again," he tells Tis, wiggling a pointing finger at her, "After Lunair."
"Frak me running, man," Tisiphone mutters as Sawyer prowls past, slapping her shoulders with a grin. "Now I /gotta/ try again. No frakking /way/ you're gonna outdo me like that." Her eyes narrow again, challengingly, before she looks to Lunair with a grin. "You gonna try it first, yeah?" She starts to pace, stops herself by pouring another shot. "Can't be any harder than sticking your frakking face out of a tank, right?" A quick flash of teeth to Devlin, then, after which she inquires archly, "The frak you doing still standing, man, after all these crash-and-burns?" Make that /two/ shots she's pouring.
Lunair giggles a little. Then her eyes widen at the mention of trying. "Oh. Er. Should I?" Lunair seems unsure. "I mean, it's gonna be tough following those acts up…" Her eyebrows lift. She looks to Cidra, considering.
Psyche startles a little at the shot in her hand, having entirely forgotten pouring it for herself. She shrugs. Maybe it was handed to her. Maybe it materialized out of thin air. Not one to question divine providence, she drinks… and watches Devlin gallantly seat the CAG, smiling sort of besottedly. Aww.
Sawyer shivers as she drops the tank back to touch her skin, freeing her hands to reach out for the camera and cigarette both as she remarks to Sitka. "You mean like putting the video on and endless loop and having the technicians program it into an endless loop that will pop up on a training scenario in the simulators? I wouldn't dare." But my, she does have a clever and evil thought process. The cigarette is tucked back in her lips, and she gives Tisiphone a crooked smile because of the pinch it causes. "I had the advantage of watching everyone else go first." So she knew what /not/ to do. That, and she just got incredibly lucky. Off to the side, she's fishing out the memory card from the confines of her brassier and working to get it back in her camera to capture more festivities.
"Sir, Mister Devlin. *Sir*," Cidra corrects Devlin when he 'Ma'ams' her. Firmly. "I am no Ma'am to you." She makes an "Oomph" sound as she's deposited. More from the way she kind of slouches down than any plopping of her on Devlin's part. Head tilted up at Sawyer. She can't help but grin. "If you want a spot, I could be persuaded. Though I am still considering that career in journalism you offered me." It's mostly a joke. Mostly. "I am still waiting to hear about those benefits."
"I was holding her up!" Devlin defends himself to Tisiphone, pointing his chin at the CAG. "Here you go, sir," he offers to Cidra in response to that correction, passing her one of his shots. Clearly if she's going to be scolding him after how helpful he's been, it's time to drink more. The other shot he knocks back himself, glass handed back to Tisiphone as he turns to look at Lunair and call encouragingly, "Go on! You have to now. It's fun, I promise."
"Naw. Naw," says Tisiphone to Lunair, weaving toward her. "C'mon. You gotta try. I mean, shit, what if you get married and knocked up like frakking Jugs before we can try this again? You'll miss the /opportunity/." She blinks a couple times, replaying her statement in her mind. "I mean. What if you get married and get pregnant, you can't get knocked up like fragging Jugs if yer married." There. That's better. "C'mon. Worst that frakkin' happens, you break your ass like the CAG did." Cue massive grin. How bad could it be?
Lunair pauses, then blushes and laughs. "Well… ah, we don't - plan on having kids for a good while. Again, my face is magnetic," She jokes lightly. And it's true. Lun is just now getting a full head of hair. It's soft, black and curly. She rubs the back of her head. Another shot. "Um. I guess I can try. try not to laugh too much huh?" Grin.
Sawyer is eyed for a good long while by Sitka, at her detailed explanation of what she plans on not doing with that camera footage. Not that he exactly has the most to lose through such a threat. The CAG, on the other hand.. "I've got a patrol to get to." Like water off a duck's back. Maybe he didn't hear the bit about the simulators. "I'm going to bail before things get really rowdy, so uh.." He's already backing off, and swerving around the clutch of pilots that includes Cidra. "Take it easy." And then, hands shoved back into his fatigues, he takes the opportunity to ninja back out again before someone can goad him into a second run.
Sawyer snorts at Cidra, a painful thing when smoke is involved. "We'll have to talk about that later. I still have to work up your incentives package and paperwork, then clear you through a background check with HR. If you have an ounce of morality or scruples, your application will just get kicked back out. What did you do to this thing…?" The last is a mutter under her breath as she fiddles with the camera Sitka was tasked with holding. "Aha." A setting gets changed back, and the Journalist is ready to go as far as documenting Lunair's run and Tisiphone's second try. She cranes her head to watch Sitka leave, a twitch of a frown and a quiet, 'Oops' and then she's shifting off to the side to get evidence that yes, everyone remembers how to laugh.
"I did not 'break my ass'," Cidra quotes Tisiphone in a grumbly sort of way. Examining her elbow as she says this. Which is starting to bruise what will soon be a fashionable shade of purple. She pokes at it. "Ow." The shot is taken, and drank. It's not hard anymore. Fingers are waggled at departing Sitka. "Good night, Ibrahim." Finger-wriggling done, attention goes back to Lunair.
Devlin blinks at Lunair, commenting, "Wow, he must be a huge liar, it's not that hard to aim." That may or may not be apropos of anything, but he snickers after a second, and then turns to give Sitka a wave. Then it's back to the marine. "Come on!" he repeats, "Go for it! Then Tis can go again. And me," he decides, head turning towards Psyche so he can inform her, "I should definitely try it again." Uh-huh.
Oh dear. The a soft laugh. Lunair smiles and waves to those parting. "I've a lot to live up to…" Well, time to try. She blushes. She decides to set her shoes aside and try sliding. Let's see how well fairly heavy short marines slide huh?
Psyche, in the process of carefully getting her lips around another shot, actually spit-takes at Devlin's comment about aim. She coughs and wheezes until her eyes stream, staggering over to sit. "Ow…" she croaks.
"Shit yeah you've gotta go again if I am," mutters Tisiphone, looking over her shoulder for a moment as Devlin speaks. "We gotta /own this/. No frakking way we're gonna get shown by the Sergeant and a five hundred year old-" Her jibe stops short as she finds the spot Sitka was occupying empty, with nary a shred of ninja smoke to show for it. "Wily frakker," she mutters, before finishing to Devlin: "No frakking way we're gonna get shown. We gotta do this." After, of course, Lunair's attempt — who receives a whoop of encouragement as she begins her run.
<FS3> Lunair rolls Athletic: Success.
<FS3> Lunair rolls Reactive: Bad Failure.
<FS3> Lunair rolls Athletic: Success.
Alas, being short comes with short legs. So while Lunair is fairly nimble and reasonably good at aiming. She comes up … short of the wire. "Eh?" Uh oh. The realization comes in about .003 seconds too late. It's kind of like watching a cat charge off the couch, go flying, flail its legs at the air and look surprised - genuinely surprised - to find no ground there! "Hiyeh?" Her purple eyes go wide as saucers. Isn't there ground there? Wasn't there a wire- damn you short legs! Whoops. Fortunately, she's in good shape with sharp reflexes, so instead of the expected *DONK* and bouncing Marine, she manages to sort of handstand or hand walk her landing, flipping over neatly. She lands on her backside, but it's not a /crash/ so much as a vague circular flop. Whomph.
Cidra whistles at Lunair from where she's slouched, even clapping even as she's wincing. "Good try, good try." Another wince. "This has been fun," she notes to Tisiphone. Sort of randomly. "I thank you for letting me stay, Money Shot." As if the ensign could have shoo'd her, though she does seem to mean it a little that way.
Psyche eyeshifts between Tisiphone and Devlin as the both decide going again is a moral imperative. She lifts a finger and starts to say something, then stops. She chews her bottom lip, then ventures, "You know that… your ability to… perform this feat is… uhm… inversely proportional to the amount of alcohol you've consumed?" A beat. "Which is, like, somewhere between holy-frakking-gods and lots?" She gasps as it appears, for a moment, Lunair is going to crash… then gapes at the recovery. "Wow. That's different." She grins and applauds vigorously. "Many, MANY style points!" she declares. "Big. HUGE!"
"No way," Devlin says, but he's agreeing with Tisiphone. Lunair begins to get a cheer, and then he winces as the cord is missed, and laughs outright at the dismount. "Nice one!" he calls, before straightening back up and coming over to collect Tis, apparently, holding out both palms for low-fives. "Your turn!" he says, "Let's do this!" As for Psyche's warning, he points at that bottle nearby and tells her, "If you're gonna say stuff like 'inversely proportional', you need to drink more." He nods sagely, and then goes back to hustling/peptalking the ensign up to the tables.
"What the FRAK, a HANDSTAND?" Tisiphone tries to laugh and look disgusted at the same time. What the /hell/, CMC? Seriously. What the /hell/. "Man, it's-" she then starts to say to Cidra, then changes it to, "Sir, it's-" then changes it /again/, with a snort at herself, to, "Can't believe you stayed, but I'm real glad you did. It's like. This is great, you know?" Her grin goes foolish for a moment. Perilously close to room-wide professions of I LOVE you, MAAAAN. "If we gotta fly an' fight an' die, frakked if we don't deserve /fun/ in there, too." So saieth her. As she's being herded toward the table by Devlin, nearly missing his palms for the low-fives. Aim's getting a little blurry.
Lunair blushes and laughs softly. "Well, at least my face seems intact," She rubs the back of her head. She grins at Psyche. "You're really kind to say so," She giggles a little. "That was pretty fun even still." She smiles. Lunair stands neatly after a moment, having to close her eyes. She's tipsy, not sauced. She blushes even more at Tisiphone's verdict. "I guess a faceplant would have been funnier, but - my eyes are already purple and nearly black…" She's not above a self depreciating joke. She is tickled pink by Psyche's reaction though, and kind of draws a circle with her toetip. "It was good to see you," She smiles at Cidra. "I am always glad to." Nod.
"It is great," Cidra agrees in a blurry sort of way, head lulling back against the wall to watch Tisiphone's next go at the table. She's certainly not taking another. Or moving under her own power.
"It's always awesome when you come out and let your hair down, sir," Psyche says to Cidra, though her gaze remains on Frick and Frak, the amazing ensign and nugget act. "Oh, man…" she gropes for the bottle, pouring herself a sloppy, sloshy shot. "This… is gonna end badly."
<FS3> Tisiphone rolls Athletic-20: Success.
<FS3> Tisiphone rolls Reactive-20: Success.
<FS3> Tisiphone rolls Athletic-20: Failure.
"Okay. Okay," Tisiphone mutters, shaking her arms out as she stares down the table. She can do this. She is a finely-honed beast of reflex and training, half a million cubits' worth, or so the story goes. She bounces once on her toes, then charges the table. She's lighter on her toes than Shiv (one point for her), but doesn't belly-flop nearly so stylishly as Sawyer (one point taken away). She catches the drag-line with her calves unlike Lunair (one point for her)… and then loses that precious +1 advantage by trying to show off, you stupid, stupid Ensign. It's some sort of somersault she tries at the end — maybe that shoulder-roll she and Constin had been talking about earlier — and it fails, utterly, landing her in a shoulder-first THUDflop. Immediately thereafter there's a low groan, and weak laughter slowly building up to louder, her fists pounding the sopping-wet floortiles to a chant of, "Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!"
Lunair blinks, and goes to help Tisiphone up. "Hey, you're not hurt are you?" She seems worried that the pilot might've been injured there. She weebles a second, but is steady enough. She seems amused by Devlin though too.
<FS3> Devlin rolls Athletic-20: Success.
<FS3> Devlin rolls Reactive-20: Success.
<FS3> Devlin rolls Athletic-20: Bad Failure.
"Do it, Tis. Do it!" is Devlin's encouragement, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he watches the pilot go. He doesn't really wait to see how she fares, taking a running start and diving onto the table. Height is a huge bonus in this portion of the activity and he nails the approach again, heading straight down the runway, long legs lifted to easily snag the cord… and then encountering a floor-punching Tis and Lunair attempting to help her up and plowing definitely into the former and probably also the latter as he attempts to avoid them and fails miserably, ending up in a pile on the floor, also laughing. When he can move, he turns his head to try to find Tis and suggest: "One more time?"
Cidra winces at the display from the Ensign and Nugget respectively. Heap. "Ow."
Having remembered, somewhere in there, to take her shot, Psyche puts her hands over her face, trying to stifle laughter at the two craptacular dismounts. "Inversely proportional means… like…" she begins to call out to them, then giggles and shakes her head. "I don't think they care."
"Dammit, daHOSHIT-!" Tisiphone does her best 'CAG Totally Breaking Her Ass' impression with the shriek she gives as Devlin piles off the table toward her and Lunair. Only the Lords know where the nugget's elbow lands to get the shriek to cut off the way it does, but it's scant seconds before the pilot's laughing again despite the pained grimace, feet slowly kicking to try to right herself, eyes casting about for Lunair. "Clear the frakking lane, man," she groans at him. "Clear. The frakking. Lane."
"Wait wha-" Oh no! Lunair flops into the pilot too. She likes Tisiphone, but she views the woman more as a friend, not a beanbag. Nor does she want to flop on Pop- er, Devlin. The pilots have pulled their second deadliest weapon- NUGGET MISSILES. "Hmmph… if I knew you were gonna launch nuggets, I'd have brought more recruits." She coughs and laughs. She's neatly in the pile, more to the side but unhurt. "No one's hurt though?" She seems relieved no one seems to be broken.
"I tried to do a handstand too," Devlin informs Lunair, adding helpfully, "It didn't really work." He has a brief fit of snickering (the manly version of the giggles) and then sets about disentangling himself and rolling out of the pile and away. He climbs to his feet then, both hands lifting to scrub at his head as he sways a little. He looks at the tables for a long moment, like he's really considering another try, but then gets hit with a huge yawn, and wanders back over towards those sitting down, instead. He holds out a hand to Psyche, and then eyes Cid, commenting, "Too bad it's not a wheelie chair. We could just push her."
Psyche takes Devlin's hand and hauls herself unsteadily to her feet. She leans against his chest for a moment, closing her eyes and catching the yawn. "Can you manage?" she wonders. "Crouching Nugget, Sleeping CAG?" Muzzily, she rubs at her right eyebrow. "I dunno. We could… like… both carry her? I'll get the arms? Or something?" THAT would be epic.
"Naw. Naw. I'm not going again. No way I need another elbow to the tit." What tit? the viewers at home may well ask, but Tisiphone says it all the same. She clambers painfully to her feet, giving Lunair an arm up — or maybe she's the one getting the arm up, it's all getting blurry now — and then calls fuzzily toward The CAG Dilemma, "We'll carry her in her chair. Alex onna backrest. Bubbles an' I on the front legs. Raine gets the hatches." Another prim nod — if one can be prim while swaying unsteadily. "Le's go."
Lun is happy to help either way. She seems fond of the pilots. "Rodger that," Lunair grunts and will move towards opening the hatch. She's tipsy but - stable. She'll hold any doors open needed to deposit the CAG safely.