| Casserole Night in the Galley |
| Summary: | The CAG makes another stealth-visit to Viper Berths. |
| Date: | 2041.04.15 |
| Related Logs: | Classified. |
| Players: |
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| Viper Squadron — Naval Deck — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post Holocaust Day: #48 |
| Viper Squadron pilots call this home. Berthings line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each stack of berths and a round table sits in the center with chairs around it. A hatch at the end leads to the communal Head that the Raptor pilots share. |
| Condition Level: 2 — Danger Close |
Slap, slap, slap. Cue Tisiphone, entering through the hatch connecting the head to Chez Viper, evidently with wet feet. She has her towel wrapped around her waist, drops of water standing in her scalpfuzz like a dandelion with dew, and the muzzy look of someone who might considering falling asleep while walking. There's also a small mesh pouch of shower and grooming accoutrements flung over her shoulder, bouncing against her scarred back.
It's been another long day at the office, as it were, for Lasher; luckily, though, it's his last. He'll be back in the cockpit tomorrow, and the very prospect seems to have him stepping a little more lively. A nod to Tisiphone as he crosses the threshold and moves towards his rack. "Evenin', Ensign," he calls out in that accented Aerilon brogue as he tosses the folders tucked under his arm under his bed and immediately unbuttons his blues jacket.
The curtain to Sawyer's bunk snicks open on it's rail, pink plaid pajama legs swinging over the side to dangle. Not long after, a blonde haired head emerges, the locks sticking up at odd angles from being bed ruffled. She leans over her knees, propping her elbows on the meat of her thighs as she rubs some sleep out of her eyes with a grumbled mumble of protest at trying to wake herself up. Blarg.
"Sir," Tisiphone calls, as she damply trudges along to her locker. "I mean. /Captain/." The tiniest twitch of a grin. She'll tire of using Lasher's new rank eventually. Doubtless long after Lasher's tired of hearing it stabbed deliberately into conversations. "Long day with the paper Raiders?" Her locker squeaks as it opens. No pajamas for her, but a fresh suit of fatigues, drawn out and tossed toward her bunk. A brief glance is thrown back over her shoulder at the sound of a curtain drawing open. Sawyer's watched for a moment, before she turns back to her task.
Sitka arrives from the Deck 4.
Sitka has arrived.
It's not that Lasher's tired of hearing it, yet; if anything, he's still not used to hearing it. He returns the smile with a thin-lipped smirk of his own as he removes his blues jacket, tossing it on the bed with his papers. "You know it." As if to punctuate the statement, he yawns. The newly-awakened Sawyer gets a look. "Sleep well, M… Sawyer?" He catches himself just in time, remembering what happened last time he encountered the blonde reporter in the bunks. His smirk widens as he looks upon the still-drowsy woman.
Sawyer paws at her hair, running her fingers back in a comb to smooth it back and away from her face, and then pinning it to her neck with both palms. As Tisi turns her way, and then Lasher greets her, Sawyer musters up a wane little smile that's still thick with sleep. "Thanks to some pharmaceutical enhancement. I keep having this awful /dreams/." The last seems a little pointed, namely in the direction of Tisiphone.
Nobody likes the guy who waltzes into berthings while everyone else is in some nebulous state of death warmed over, looking like he just won the lottery. Well, that might be pushing it, but Shiv's saunter through the hatch has 'it's casserole night in the galley' written all over it. There's no accounting for the aviator's shades he's pulled on, though, or the way his pen — trapped between his teeth — bobs up and down while he flips through some paperwork enroute to his locker.
Tisiphone gives her scalpfuzz a brisk rub with her good hand, spattering her surroundings with drops. The towel is hung up on the edge of her opened locker before she drops down heavily onto the edge of her bunk. This last month has been slowly but surely pushing her frame away from 'coltish' to 'bony'; knees too large for the legs they're attached to, shoulderblades like wings reluctantly trapped under the skin. She starts pulling her fresh change of clothes on — starting, as always, with the red- and gold-striped socks. "Which dream is that? The one where this isn't a dream?" It sounds flippant, though the look she raises from her socks to the other woman is decidedly odd.
Lasher directs a curious look at Sawyer, before turning his gaze on the new arrival. Sitka gets a slight browraise from Laskaris as the younger man lights himself a cigarette. A quick exhale is followed by a vaguely amused snort. "Some bloke put happy pills in your coffee this morning, Shiv?" He has a seat at the table, ashtray in hand, and stretches out languidly.
Sawyer looks at Tisiphone for a long moment, unable to term it in such a nonchalant way so she merely mutters a, "Something like that." And lets the topic drop for now. Her eyes shift to the incoming pen-waggling Captain, and her smile turns a touch more genuine. "And he's not sharing with his neighbors. That's a lynchable offense."
Lasher's question garners a chortle from the alpha Petrel, and a brief flash of blue eyes behind the shades as a look's directed the younger man's way. Once he's extricated the pen from his mouth, and begun spinning the combination on his lock, he murmurs in reply, "What, so if it's not all doom and gloom, I must be taking happy pills? Sounds like someone could use some levity." Spin, spin, click. "Just remember, Sawyer-" He glances over his shoulder at the blonde, and slides off the aviators. "I know where you sleep." They're tucked onto the top shelf of his locker, whereupon rummaging commences.
There's another second or two of Odd Look aimed by Tisiphone at Sawyer before her eyes drop back down to mind the whole getting-dressed affair. It's still an awkward-looking dance that she does with her cast, but at least the steps are godsforsakenly routine by now. There's a quiet snort — amused, maybe — muffled into her tank-tops as she struggles them on, over and around the plaster.
"Normally, no. But you didn't strike me as much the cheery type," Lasher replies to Sitka, tongue planted firmly in cheek. Smirk still plastered on his face, he leans back in his chair, cigarette-holding arm propped up on his knee. "Better not be holding out."
"It looks good on him." It meaning 'happy' and him presumeably is Sitka of course. Sawyer stays tucked up in her bunk, now pulling her legs back in to sit cross-legged so her dangling limbs won't impede the Captain should he head for his bunk. "So, uh. Tisiphone, did you want to get some tea some time? I want to talk to you. Consider it an informal interview." Always working, or burying something else under the guise of work.
Ibrahim rolls his eyes slightly, most likely unseen by the trio, as he continues rummaging around inside his locker. What looks (to Tisiphone and Laskaris, anyway) like a viper technical manual for the Mark VII is dragged out and tucked under his arm with the rest of his paperwork. Then a cigarette butt from the coffee cup on his top shelf, which replaces the pen he had in his mouth. Slight oral fixation, there. "I'll be happy to return you to your regular doom and gloom-" He pauses, and bangs his locker shut. "Does it count as doom and gloom, if you're happy to do it?" The question is rhetorical, and aimed in Tisiphone's general direction.
Tisiphone pushes back up to her feet to finish getting dressed. Her boots are stepped into last of all, lightly kicked back and forth to settle her feet, before she moves back around to her locker for some rummaging of her own. There's the click-clack of a sidearm being checked, followed by the awkward process of fastening the holster-belt to her person. "I'm shit at dream interpretation, but- yeah. Whenever. What's this shift look like for you?" To Sawyer, presumably. The damp towel is hung up in the lower before she closes it and slips the lock back on. To Sitka, there's simply… a look. She seems a bit at a loss how to answer, her expression hovering somewhere between puzzlement and defensiveness.
Lasher gestures idly with his cigarette. "Never mind." Another yawn from the blond captain is stifled, and he shakes his head lightly, as if trying to clear his head. A look passes between Tisiphone and Sawyer before his eyes finally fall back on Sitka and his flight manual. "Looking to branch out a little, are you?"
Cidra arrives from the Deck 4.
Cidra has arrived.
"Just for the record, Ensign, you suck at subterfuge. And yes, suck is a technical term." Sawyer's tone is rather flat. Her leg uncurls, one bare foot seeking out the cold rungs of the ladder before she eases her weight down it. "I'm free. I make my own hours and can't get any real work done until some of these reports get finalized anyways." Before she scampers off for tea and brain picking, the Journalist makes a side-trip to the Petrel Captain, leaning in to mutter something with a hint of mischief in her eyes.
Sitka might not have really expected an answer. The look he gets from Tisiphone, either way, seems sufficient to stave off any further contributions to the social catastrophe that the Captain frequently is. At least the expression of slightly smug pleasure is gone. Turning, he heads for the table where Lasher's already settled, and starts setting his things down with a few soft slaps of paper meeting aluminium. "More like reacquaint myself with them," he explains with a brief, and faintly shy smile the other man's way. "I flew the sevens for damn near ten years, but I guess they've changed a little since I last set foot in one. That, or I've been away from all the flashing lights and fancy computers for too long." Then the pat-down for his lighter begins. "Congratulations, by the way. I was wondering when the CAG'd get around to giving you those pins." And then Sawyer's approaching with Words— and whatever they were, they have him blanching and stiffening slightly.
"Go pick an ECO's brain if you're wanting subterfuge, Ma'am. Not part of my training." Blandly, that, except for the ma'am, which Tisiphone's voice lifts to a prickly tone. She turns, scooping her prayer-beads off the shelf at the head of her bunk, into her pocket, then leans a bony hip into the bunk-ladder. She looks from Sitka to Sawyer and back again, pale brows lifting slightly before she tips her head down, rummaging for her ciggies.
Speak of demons and CAGs and they shall appear. Into Viper land drifts Cidra. Cigarette between her fingertips, from which she's taking liberal drags. She's pretty much always smoking when she comes to the commune with the Vipers. They can make of that what they will. She's in her duty blues, so this may be vaguely official, though her jacket's unbuttoned and her hair's damp as if she just came from the showers. As ever, she doesn't announce her presence right away. For a second, she just lurks.
Whatever response she was expecting out of the Petrel Captain? That wasn't it. For a brief second, Sawyer looks like a wounded puppy, but then her chin nudges up a tick and her back straightens and never did a woman in pink plaid pajamas look so regal. "Well. I guess I gotta take what I can get." The journalist says on a careful even keel (though rather ambiguously to Tisi or Sitka), then sweeps her arm magnanimously towards the exit. "Shall we?" This time, it's directed at Tisi. And yes, Sawyer absolutely plans on leaving berthings in her pajamas.
Lasher again finds himself looking from Tisiphone to Sawyer and back, trying and failing to hide a thin smirk. The interchange between the reporter and Sitka draws a bit of curiosity, but he shrugs it off a moment later. The latter recieves a nod. "Well, when I was on Tauron, we had naught but a few old Twos. Flew 'em for a year and a half before goin' back to Sevens on Hyperion. Took a little bit of readjustment, that did. I wouldn't worry too much, though." He chuckles. "Bloody things nearly fly themselves." Lasher catches a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he cranes his neck to see Cidra lurking on the periphery. "Oi, Major," he greets the woman. "What'll it be?"
"You got that right," Shiv murmurs, presumably of the sevens flying themselves. Sawyer is very pointedly not looked at during her retreat from berthings. He might've otherwise pointed out that she's still in her pyjamas, as a courtesy, but whatever was confided seems to be still bothering him. "Hey, Toast," he greets while settling in and lighting up. His cigarette, not his paperwork. And then the technical manual, battered and dog eared as it is, is cracked open.
One civvie in pink-plaid jammies. One Ensign, in fatigues and sidearm. The Oddness Factor alone should keep them undisturbed. Tisiphone pushes off her bunk-ladder as she draws her rumpled pack of cigarettes out of her pocket. The two squadleaders are given a quick glance, mouth twisted as if she's considering some parting statement, then decides against it. "Wherever you think we can talk," she says to Sawyer, heading for the door. The lurking CAGbeast is observed, then, and given one of her rather foolish-looking casted salutes as she moves by. "Sir."
Cidra is oblivious to the interplay, or lack thereof, between Sitka and Sawyer. She takes a step aside as the reporter heads toward the exit. Clearing her path. "Miss Averies. A good eve." The greeting is not unfriendly and the woman gets a faint smile. "Apostolos." Tisiphone also gets a nod, but it's the Viper captains on which she focuses as she winds her way into the room. "Lasher. Shiv. How does this day find you?" Anything resembling a salute is acknowledged with a loft of her cigarette. Before she drags on it again. The pair of Sawyer and Tisiphone is eyed. Briefly. But she lets them go without any sort of formal interrogation.
"Major Hahn." Sawyer greets as amicably as she can muster, before pressing out into the hall without further glances back to the room.
Sawyer leaves, heading towards the Deck 4 [Out].
Sawyer has left.
Tisiphone leaves, heading towards the Deck 4 [Out].
Tisiphone has left.
"Today finds me shitty, sir," Lasher notes wryly in response to Cidra. "Tomorrow, on the other hand, ought to find me better." Seeing as he's been cleared to return to flight status tomorrow and all. No more workdays filled with nothing but paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. At least until the next time he's on the shelf, at least. Chuckling softly at his own wit, Lasher takes another pull from his cigarette. There's a terse and belated nod to Shiv a moment later. "Thanks." For the congratulations.
Cidra's blue eyes swivel to follow out Sawyer and Tisiphone. "Ahhh…" Cidra murmurs it low. The CAGbeast is curious. "Do I want to know what all that was about?" she asks. It has half the sound of a rhetorical question. She knows she probably doesn't. A hint of a smirk at Laskaris' comment about the paperwork. "Fitting. More brass typically means more time trapped in the offices. Best you grow callused to this now before the papercuts end you." Gaze flits to the technical manual. Idly skimming over it.
Sitka forgot his salute, in point of fact. The situation's remedied belatedly, with a hasty tip of two fingers to his forehead, and an even briefer flick of blue eyes the Major's way, before they return to his 'study' material. He's seated opposite Laskaris at the table, dressed in tank tops and fatigues, and a whole lotta ink. "Just, uh, brushing up on the mark sevens," is his contribution to the question aimed at both of them. Today's remedial lesson looks to be on lateral gun employment in a high-side pass.
"Yeah, thanks for that," Lasher replies, his voice dry as he echoes Sitka's casual semi-salute, though it likely comes off as more than a little sarcastic, given his comment. He's in a similarly casual state of dress as the other captain, his unbuttoned blues jacket hanging off his shoulders. "Maybe that's why Spiral never made it past lieutenant." Though, the sardonic lilt in his voice suggests otherwise. His cigarette is flicked before he takes another drag. "'S all right, Major. Just have to remember to keep perspective about it all. Papercuts beat the bloody frak out of being dead, or in hack, or something." He grins.
Cidra was quite happy to let Sitka and Lask forget anything resembling a salute here. She responds to them by smoking some more. Then sitting and lightly tapping some ash off in a convenient tray. "Well, that is for the good," she says to the Petrels captain. "They do take a bit of getting used to. I took something of a crash course in all things Viper during my last stint on Picon. Speaking figuratively, of course, not literally." A sidelong look at Laskaris at his knock to Spiral. Just a look.
Crash course. Har har. Shiv's lips twitch a little, like he's staving off some sort of witty rejoiner, but then Cidra goes and cuts him off at the pass. Clearing his throat, he takes a drag off his smoke and arms his pen with a precipitous -click-. "My experience in raptors is limited to a single, and rather.. uh.. unfortunate instance," he murmurs bemusedly. Make that two sidelong looks, when Spiral's mentioned.
Well, that was awkward. Lasher responds to the sudden silence and twin looks from the others with pursed lips, but says nothing. Best not to compound the faux pas. For a moment, he looks extremely occupied with the cigarette in his hand. "Never trifled with Raptors, myself," he finally adds to the conversation. "Almost ended up as an ECO in training, though, actually. Managed to talk the instructors out of that little plan, though. Always hated bein' the frakkin' passenger in someone else's bird."
Cidra's brows arch at Sitka. "That sounds like an interesting story," she observes, folding her arms to rest on the table comfortably. One hand still raised up to keep her cigarette within easy puffing reach. "Well, I survived and did not cost the Navy a too terrible amount of cubits, I don't think. I requested an assignment at Fleet Headquarters largely so I could enter intensive Viper training. It's not strictly necessary, of course, but Flight Command is dominated by Viper jocks. So, they like to see it when they're handing out battlestar assignments. I am fully flight qualified for them, on paper." On paper. The distinction is made wryly. She's covered the occasional CAP in a Viper but she's not flown them in any more challenging situation.
"Or just an incriminating one," Sitka counters, blue eyes crinkling a touch at the corners. "Don't take this as an offense, sir, but I can't imagine you in a viper cockpit." He gestures vaguely with his pen. "I used to be able to peg which stick a pilot flew, just by looking at them." The amused look remains as he glances to Laskaris, and he queries after a beat, "You've got a degree of some sort in engineering, right?"
"Computer science," Lasher affirms to Sitka. Close enough. "For all the good it did me, anyway. Six years of school, thousands of cubits in loans, and nothing to show for it but a year's worth of shitty jobs and three books no one's likely ever read." He shrugs. "Well. Fleet helped me pay off my loans, anyway." That's something, right? He snickers at Shiv's comment about Cidra. "Don't underestimate her. She pegged me in the simulators a while back." He looks a little restless at the admission, but it's made freely nonetheless. "Though I still blame it on a frak-it-all lucky shot." One has to salvage one's pride how one can.
Cidra chuckles low at Sitka. "I am better made for the taxis, and proud of it. Captain Kefir Abbascia called it…political when I told him I'd qualified." Tone oh-so-very wry. Oh, that Kefir. Toast doesn't often take smoke breaks with him. Though she does give a small shrug. "Perhaps he was not wrong. For three years, my life was dedicated to getting the Wing on the new Mercury Class. And. Here I am." At the end of the worlds. Be careful what you wish for and all that. A small snort to Laskaris. "*Was* a lucky shot on the first go. I can't made the birds dance so well. And you got cocky." Barest hint of a smile.
"Did she?" Ibrahim murmurs, head bent again so he can pore over the schematics more closely. A wonky smile briefly touches his lips, regardless. Cidra's remark about politics has the expression fading, and one shoulder lifting in a slight shrug. "Fleet sure makes you jump through enough hoops, I don't entirely blame you. I've got to say, I've never met a raptor for a CAG; it must've been even worse for you." He lifts his eyes briefly, then returns to his work. Scribble, scribble in the margin. The remainder of the conversation's tuned out, for the most part.
"So she did." Lasher looks a little abashed at the thought of getting fragged by a raptor driver, but he confirms matter-of-factly. "Though she's right, I got cocky. She won't be so lucky next time, wot?" A feral grin is flashed in Cidra's direction. His expression turns turns the same way as the other captain's, however, at the mention of Kefir, and Laskaris shakes his head. "Man's entitled to his opinion," he states finally, though the note of derision in his voice seems to make his stance on said opinion clear enough.
Cidra tries to catch Sitka's eyes with her own blues for a beat and simply nod, before leaving him to his reading. Mood a little heavier than it was a moment ago. Though Laskaris' words earn the barest hint of a smile. "We shall see. I could certainly use the practice. Though what you said before makes me curious. Why did you not end up backseating in a Raptor? It would seem the natural career track for one with that sort of educational background. It is very desired. My Raptor instructors eyed me like I had a third head when I told them I'd majored in Theology."
"Because I did my damndest to avoid that particular fate," Lasher notes dryly. "Got nothin' against ECOs, mind. Just… didn't want to be one, y' know?" He shrugs, puffing away at his cigarette. "It's a little hard to explain. Call it ego, call it a speed fetish, call it what you will. But Vipers are where I wanted to be, and frakitall, Vipers were where I was hellbent on staying." He shakes his head. "Not that it mattered. I wasn't showing much in the cockpit at the time, and they were about a week away from transferrin' me anyway before I managed to change their minds. But, that's about when the initial gunnery trials started." There's a dry chortle. "Took a near-perfect score in three consecutive runs on the gunnery range at Tencher to do it, but they kept me where I was."
Cidra's gaze rests on Laskaris as she listens to that. She actually cracks a grin, nodding a little. "I understand. Shiv hit not far from the mark before, I think. Viper jocks and Raptor flyers have different temperaments by and large. I'm never sure what comes first. The manner or the plane. But I cannot imagine you in a Raptor backseat." Done with her cigarette, the remainder it stubbed out in the ashtray. "We certainly need the gunnery now, so I think you have walked the right path."
"I don't quite have Shiv's eye, but he's not wrong. Not hard to tell 'em apart, you look long enough. Most Raptor jockeys don't have that swagger the rest of the fleet despises so much," Lasher notes, his voice a deadpan. He smiles predatorily, chuckling a little at Cidra's comment about him. "I couldn't either. Just as well I'm not, then." He nods to her last. "Lotta jocks get all puffed up about being shithot pilots, but I haven't met one yet I couldn't shoot down. That goes for the toaster bastards, too." An arrogant statement, probably, but it's said with a surprisingly unboastful matter-of-factness of a man who can generally back up the shit he talks.
"You're very likely the best shot in the Wing," Cidra says. There's no hint of effusive praise about her. It's stated as plain fact. "It is dodging you are not so good at." No hint of lightness about her tone now. His aggressive flying is a thing she both highly values and that makes her cringe at times. Cigarette put out, she stands. "I should leave you to it. The rack calls before eight-hour CAP comes 'round again."
And there's no lightness in Laskaris' tone when he replies, either, as the shortcoming Cid mentioned has already cost him a couple of ships already. "Yeah. There's that." His lips pursed and brows knotted, he rises as the CAG does. "Right. Should probably do the same. First day back on CAP tomorrow, myself." A nod. "Fair even, Major."
"Good night, Anton," Cidra replies as she heads out. Drifting back to to from whence she came.