| Charlie's Divine Secrets of the Traveling Lipstick Mafia & the City |
| Summary: | Some girls get together to blow off some steam. Read with caution. |
| Date: | 31 Oct 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None. |
| Players: |
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| Random Storage Closet |
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| See the Set. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #247 |
This is an unfinished log. At one point we paused as we always meant to finish it off with Cidra joining in the end. Then Tisiphone up and died, and it just sort of fell to the wayside. I wanted this memorialized though, so I'm posting the log unfinished.
Welcome to Charlie's Divine Secrets of the Traveling Lipstick Mafia & the City where women from different walks of life have gathered to share their secrets, their woes, and their joys over the bonding influence of alcohol. No really. After months of past hardships and current strife, word of mouth passed around until this rag tag group decided to get together for a night of locking themselves in a storage closet and just having some plain old fun.
Not much has been done to spiff up the place, it's just a storage closet with crate, a white bed sheet thrown over the top as a makeshift tablecloth with a grouping of (fire hazard) candles on a tin plate in the center. Sawyer's sitting cross-legged on a sack of laundry, already toying with a glass of liquor from a bottle she's brought along for the occasion. Toying, but not really drinking. She looks rather contemplative in her pink pajamas while waiting for the others to arrive.
No. Thanks. I'm busy, was Tisiphone's patently-false reason for the first brush-off of tonight's festivities. Whether it was Miss Averies calling her on her bullshit — busy doing what, smoking and brooding in your bunk like you've been doing for the past month? — or herself is a matter left between the pilot and the reporter. She toes the hatch open, carrying a corked, unmarked bottle of clear liquid in her hand, and peers in through a haze of cigarette smoke. "Did I miss it?" she asks, her voice scratchy and barely loud enough to carry.
Cora arrives, bottle in hand, just behind Tisiphone, on time to say, "I hope not. And doubt it. Hey, Tis." Her cigarettes are as-yet unlit, sticking out of a pocket on the black marine cargo pants she wears. She heads in after the pilot, setting her alcohol offering (a full, whiskey-colored bottle) on the table before picking a seat and setting about untying and pulling off her boots. "Good idea, Sawyer," she says to the reporter, "I was thinking something like this'd be good, I've barely made it out of my office in weeks."
Enter Psyche, stage left, a mostly full bottle of well-drink grade rum dangling from her grasp. She pauses a blinks a few times at the ambiance, tilting her head and flashing Sawyer a smile. "Pretty swank. Even my wedding reception didn't have table cloths…" She places her offering on the makeshift table. "Of course, it didn't have guests, either. But it was in a storage unit." She sighs happily. "Ah, mem'ries. Laaaaaaaaaadies," she greets them as a group, then, hopping onto a crate and crossing her legs prettily. "Let the bonding commence."
Sawyer wiggles a little higher in her makeshift bean bag chair of spare linens, a smile crinkling at the corner of her eyes as the others spill in. "I'd say everyone's right on time." As people start to settle in, she takes a quick sip of her glass, then slides it onto the table. The flames of the candles waiver from the disturbed air, casting waivering shadows on the walls but hold firm to the wick. "So a few ground rules for everyone's sanity, well…just one, really. What is said here simply stays here. That said, Cidra sends her apologies but she's detained and not sure if she's going to make it. However…" The journalist pulls a fat roll from underneath the lip of the tin plate, "we have a consolation prize. Settle in. The name of the game is 'I Never'. We go around the circle, saying 'I never fill-in-the-blank'. And if you /have/, you drink. Simple enough."
"So in the interest of love, kindness, and getting you all drunk off your faces, I gotta think of something I've never done, and you all /have/?" Tisiphone settles crosslegged on her own crate, decides it's too far from the table, then unfolds her legs and hauls the crate in a little closer. "Frak me running." Her eyes flick from person to person, her cigarette twitching in her mouth with a barely-there smirk.
Psyche's eyes bug a little and her cheeks puff out, like she's faced with the laugh-and-spew-your-drink-or-choke-to-death dilemma. She utters a long snrrk, finally shaking her head ruefully. "I've played this game," she notes, "back in college. More than once. It was always a good way to get wasted in a hurry." She reaches forward to pour herself a drink in preparation. "I think I'll do better this time." She choke-giggles at Tis's epithet, pointing at the JiG. "That I've never done." She drinks.
"The point is to drink if you /have/ been frakked running. Which, if anyone has that's a helluva feat, and I'll need the details of how it's done. And how not to get injured while doing it." The journalist leans forward to make sure that everyone's glass is full for the start of the game, clinking the bottle heavily as she tops off those who aren't. "So let's see. I've never…had sex in communal berthings." Sawyer starts out light.
Cora drinks, and then clarifies after she swallows, "Not that I've been frakked running, I just wanted a drink." She settles back with her glass and agrees belatedly, "It has been forever since I've played this." Another sip, and then Sawyer's offering draws a laugh. "Way to take it out on the military, thanks," and drinks.
"Oh, right…" Psyche looks briefly confused as she's corrected on the rules. "No wonder I always used to lose this game." She seems to give the logistics of frakking while running serious consideration, though. "I think… maybe… if there was a treadmill involved? Technically, only one person would be running, I guess, but you'd kind of hook your legs like — " She stops herself as she's got one leg in the air, then clears her throat. "But you probably weren't serious." Eyeshift. She drinks.
"Saw a goat get frakked running, once," Tisiphone muses, pointing her cigarette at Psyche for emphasis. "Didn't look like fun for either involved." She's glancing down at her boot-tip as she ashes her cigarette when Sawyer begins — and her head immediately snaps up, pale brows furrowed in obviously disbelief. "What do you /mean/, you haven't?" she says to the reporter. She starts to reach for her drink, falters as her eyes narrow further, then finishes the gesture and drinks. Slowly.
Sawyer clears her throat and has the audacity to blush when Tisiphone narrows eyes at her. "It, ah, was never in berthings. This game is all about the technicalities. But now I know to knock on the bulkhead before peaking into any of your curtains." Sawyer clears her throat and gestures to Cora. "Your turn."
Cora coughs at Tisiphone's addition, turning to laugh, "Really?" She shakes her head a bit, and continues to do so as she looks to Psyche, definitely amused. She takes another drink, apparently just because, and then brows lift as it is declared to be her turn. She leans back and considers for a long moment. It doesn't take too long before her lips curl into an evil sort of grin. "I have never," she says, clearly pleased with herself, "Had sex in a storage closet here on Cerberus."
"Oh, my goodness, the poor goat!" Psyche gasps, boggling at Tis. "I hope it gored the bastard. Or hooved… or… bit? Something." She glances between Tis and Sawyer as the latter is grilled about her bedding habits, looking a little worried, but snrrks mirthfully again at the next 'I never.' "G'bye, cruel world," she murmurs, smirking and taking another drink. "I have a feeling this is gonna be a short game for me."
"Oh, my goodness, the poor goat!" Psyche gasps, boggling at Tis. "I hope it gored the bastard. Or hooved… or… bit? Something." She glances between Tis and Sawyer as the latter is grilled about her bedding habits, looking a little worried, but snrrks mirthfully again at the next 'I never.' "G'bye, cruel world," she murmurs, smirking and taking another drink. "I have a feeling this is gonna be a short game for me."
Tisiphone's eyes stay rather intently upon Sawyer as she finishes her drink. "Mmn," is all she says, at length, before she blows out a smoky snort and the whole thing seems forgotten. Her cigarette gets pointed at Cora next, eyes narrowing again. J'accuse. "Oh, that is /such/ bullshit!" she says to the TACCO, even as she's lifting her drink. "You're serious? You can't be serious." Her teeth flash for a second, bared against the alcohol's bite.
Sawyer merely smiles as she looks to the others, resolutely not reaching for her drink. Nope. Sawyer's never shagged in a storage closet either. If it keeps going along this line, Sawyer's going to be the only sober one here. Her eyes shift down the line for the next question. "If we were on planet, I would so be the designated driver." An hand stirs from its idle slumber to reach for the fat roll of chamalla, the reporter touching it to her lips as she leans over a candle's flame to spark it to life.
Psyche blinks and looks around. "Is it my turn?" She purses her lips and considers Sawyer. "I've never been a member of the press corps," she states, leaning back on one arm and propping a boot up on her crate. "Designate that, pookie."
Cora avoids almost choking this time but just blinks at Psyche, and then laughs, "I assumed she meant by another goat!" Another moment of laughter before she turns back towards Tisiphone and shakes her head. "I wish it were bullshit, Tis, believe me. This is, in fact, the first time I have ever had reason to be happy about it. But yeah, I'm serious." She takes a drink anyway, because it is in her hand and Sawyer is the designated driver. The giant chamalla-cigar earns a brief stare and then she chuckles at Psyche's 'I Never' and does not drink.
Tisiphone's teeth flash again, this time in the briefest of grins. "Assumptions can be a terrible thing," she says, slyly, rolling her cigarette back and forth between her fingers. She ashes it again and picks up her glass, fidgeting with it in her lap while she waits for the good reporter to finish her christening drink.
"Touche, Sparkles." So what if Psyche's callsign is 'Bubbles'. Currently, Sawyer finds this more fitting. A lung full of fragrant smoke is expelled in a open-mouthed huff. That done, it frees her to loft her cup of whiskey and take a pull off the top. "Needed to wet my whistle anyways." Sawyer says in a harsh weeze born of the burn of alcohol as it claws its way down her throat. While she can't particulary talk, she vaguely motions at Tisiphone to ask her question next (assuming no one else needs to drink on that one) and simultaneously passes the joint towards her.
"Terrible," Cora agrees with Tisiphone with a bit of a smirk before turning to watch Sawyer and laugh, "'Sparkles'. I like it. Getting good use out of that nail polish we grabbed you from that mall, I see." She glances down at her glass, but resists the (seeming) urge to drink again, instead waiting and asking, "Who's turn is it now? Tis?"
Stalling time: over. Tisiphone performs a small juggling act between her cigarette, her drink, and the proffered joint, ending with the latter trapped in her fingers. The seconds start to drag on as she watches the smoke curl off it, rather than dragging it into her lungs. Finally: "I never smoked a chamalla joint before I came aboard the Cerberus." Her eyebrows lift in a so there sort of punctuation as she finally takes a drag, offering it next to Psyche.
Psyche laughs, shaking her head and leaving her drink untouched, but gladly accepting the joint. "This," she announces, "will actually be my first chamalla joint." She gamely takes a long, deep toke, then passes it on to Cora. Her breath is held for several long beats before she wheezes out an impressive, blue-grey cloud of smoke. "Holy frak," she croaks, eyes already quite red and a little watery. "Smooth." She waves her hands in the air, rasping, "Never did the ecclesiastical-grade stuff before coming here. It was always just… regular old weed."
Cora takes the joint Psyche passes, admitting, "It's not exactly abundant on Caprica, but you can get it if you're curious enough." Which apparently she was, as she takes a drink before taking a long drag off the blunt, falling silent as she holds the smoke in her lungs for a while, passing it back to Sawyer before she finally exhales. "Supposedly it encourages visions or something," she says after a deep breath, "But I've never seen any. This is Cidra's?" she asks the reporter, curiously, "Nice of her."
"A joint is just…fast-tracking your communion with the gods. Notice she used the word 'joint', ladies. Providing a modifier to which then would preclude her from the statement. But in which case, I would have to drink. Don't judge, when you're a reporter, you have to do all sorts of questionable things in order to gain the trust of your interviewee." Sawyer salutes, then tips back her drink to take a swig. "But if it ever comes up in my political future. This never happened." She winks at Cora's question, but doesn't expound, then contemplates because now it's her turn to ask another question. "I never…have had a tattoo."
"Like, a permanent, for-real one, right?" Psyche clarifies, topping off her glass but declining to drink. "I let Alex draw on me, once. Oh, wow," she becomes suddenly enthusiastic, aglow. "Did you guys know that the tatau for, like, marriage and family goes over the left side of the chest, but it's also, like… more than just ink? It's, I guess, part scarification or whatever, so it's doubly permanent. Isn't that beautiful?"
…FADE…