| PHD #223: Confidence |
| Summary: | Khloe goes over paperwork and Bran gives her a small confidence boost. |
| Date: | 07 Oct 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Pilot Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| The battlestar's pilots call this place home. Bunks line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each pair of bunks and a round metal table sits in the center, furnished with simple but comfortable steel chairs. A hatch at the rear of the room leads to a communal head. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #223 |
Khloe is seated at the central table, several folders of what appear to be flight logs, certifications, and other information and statistics about the Black Knights splayed in front of her. She's also got a notepad, onto which she writes her various notes as she pours through all the files. Her handwriting is blockish and efficient, tall and clipped, much like she is. Occasionally she chews on the end of the pen in her hand while reviewing this or that.
Another CAP, another day, and the day isn't over but Bran marks one down on a palm-sized slip of paper as he steps into the berths. He has his flight suit on, but will presumably be ditching it in favor of being lazy for a while, until another patrol crops up later on. With his striding into the berths and walking the line towards his bunk he comes across Khloe and her assortment of information. The paper is tucked out of sight and so too is the pen. He slows down and lifts his chin, looking to the paperwork: "The job of an Es-El is never over, I see."
"Really just getting started," comes Poppy's muttered reply, as she finishes making a notation. Then, she closes the folder she was reading from, and pushes back from the table a bit in order to stretch her arms upward, eyes clenched, and neck and shoulders crunching as she rolls her head back and forth. Girl's wound tighter than a snare drum.
Bran undoes the front of his vest and turns his attention to the side, holding his gaze aloft as he looks in the general direction of his bunk. Instead of continuing onward, the man pulls out a chair opposite Khloe and takes to a seat in order to join her. He knits his brows curiously to the stretching but takes a moment in speaking up. Then, well, and then he actually does bother with speaking up: "You look like the shit's getting to you," a pause, "You okay?"
"Hmm?" Khloe asks as she rolls her shoulders. "No, I just don't like sitting still for this long, is all. My body likes to be in motion. Running, climbing, hand to hand training, beating you up." There's a hint of a smirk. "But I need to get this done," she explains. "There's an Air Wing meeting on Sunday and I need to make sure I have my information straight when I start making believe I know what I'm doing."
"Uh-huh," is murmured by Bran, somewhat unbelieving but at least able to let her answer pass without judgment. He lifts his right hand to brush gently over his upper lip with an idle gesture and then rubs his jaw while replying, "Low blow, that one - you never know, I could be leting you win, this whole time, just to make you feel good, and I could whip you any time. I'd do that, you know." The hand drops and he closes his mouth if only because it stops him telling such a high tale as that one. He stiffly nods his head and offers a half-smirk. "Fake until you make it, but at least you can always just be yourself."
Khloe raises an eyebrow and gives Bran an indignant look. "Dry. Erase. Marker. That's all I need to say." Her eyes drop down to look at the paperwork in front of her, and her brow knits as if thinking about something vexing. "Be myself. I'm not sure I'm ready to be tossed out an airlock or demoted back to Tau Garrison. If I ran the Knights like I did the Garrison it'd be the most efficient, highest-skilled, hateful bunch of sticks in the good gods' universe."
The corners of Bran's eyes tighten and he wrinkles the bridge of his nose out of simple distaste, but he doesn't speak up any further. He does reach down to his left side and idly rub there self-consciously, and remove the hand when he consciously notices the movement. By then his expression has naturally relaxed itself and he's forgotten of that particular tangent to their conversation. "Hey, we're a dying breed. Everyone is far too insanely attached to the idea of spacing toasters - not each other." He almost laughs at the thought, almost. There's a glance given to the covered paperwork. His smile doesn't even reach his eyes, until he continues speaking, "So don't make it an if, ever, all right?"
Khloe nods slowly, her facial expression softening a little, particularly the hardness of her gaze. "Thanks, Pens," is her reply. "With you and Sweetiepea as my non-frat sounding-board, I should be able to pull through this and not get spaced." And in a rare show of emotion, the new Knights SL reaches over and gives Bran a quick pat on his forearm.
Bran looks to the paperwork again as his mind recites his words and then with a satisfactory noise coming up from his throat he looks back towards Khloe and gives a nod of his head. "And you're welcome," is his reply in turn, but he doesn't interject too much beyond that. He does smile though, reassuringly so. There's another nod of his head. That smile of his lingers and upon the pat he begins to stand up. "Worse comes to worst," he adds, vaguely impish with palms held up at his sides, "You can always try your hand at kicking my ass one of these days."
"Oh, you can count on it," Khloe states, confidence returning. "And I won't even use any office supplies this time," she says with a small grin. Rolling her shoulders again, she looks back down at the small pile of paperwork. "I should get back to this," she mutters. Peering back up at Bran, her lips draw tight, and she gives him a determined nod, then flips open a folder and gets back to work.