PHD #167: Could Very Well Be
Could Very Well Be
Summary: A space Ferrari is like a Viper? Really?
Date: 12 Aug 2041 AE
Related Logs: Up to Ania and/or Evan to post
Ania Evandreus Trask 
Naval Offices - Deck 10 - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #167
This area is set-up much like any standard office building. Cubicles have been constructed using cheap waist-high walls, their contents left neutral for whoever needs to use them. Inside each cubicle is a desk with a laptop and chair. Simple overhead lights bring dull illumination to the room except over the back wall where each one of the colonies twelve flags hangs from its own pole. Fake, potted plants dot the room and seem to be standard issue along with the water cooler and coffee machines. Off the main room are a few private offices such as that of the JAG or CAG.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

Same time everyday, the Squadron Leader of the VAQ-141 holds 'office hours', which are largely dedicated to the necessary tedium of paperwork. Even though Trask has devised a system to optimize efficiency without compromising accuracy, it's still the worst part of the job for someone not wired to be a desk jockey. Nestled in an ashtray, a single cigarette burns among the corpses of those that came before it, simply to periodically have some of its life sucked out.

Evandreus has hired Ani an escort of the tall, blonde, -built- MP variety. Isn't that nice of him? Of course, it's also a pre-requisite to getting her out of the civvie pens and into the Naval Offices to come see Boots. He pauses just outside the hatchway to the office complex, lifting a hand to rest on the side of the door as he turns to look to the woman. "Want me to wait for you out here?" he asks her. She… didn't really seem keen on the notion of him interceding in this meeting, before, after all.

"Are you /kidding/?" Ania asks him as she moves to tug at Bunny's arm to drag him in with her. "You're my backup." Or the one keeping her from walking right back up to Tent City where she can hide out in her makeshift hovel. The MP is given a flash of a smile as if to tell him that she doesn't really need backup. She totally does, though. This is Trask, after all. "Unless you don't want to go in. I suppose I can go alone." She pauses and looks at him as he makes up his mind, though she does reach over and knock a series of quick, quiet notes.

Pressing down hard enough to make sure his signature is clear on all three pages of the triplicate form, Trask then adds the sheets to the pile of completed paperwork. Half-way through the second sentence of the next document, there is a rap-tap-tap against his cubicle's divider. "'sup?" he asks, still reading.

"Hey, hey, nah, I'll go with," Bunny assures Ani quickly, taking his other arm off of the doorpost to reach across his chest and pat the top of the hand clutching at his arm, a simple gesture designed to pack more CPSI (comfort per square inch?) than average. And, before Ani can change her mind, he steps on by her, letting his arm slip out of hers but snagging her hand with his as he goes. "Hey, Boots. You got a sec? I brought you a present," he greets, cheeky enough. Eyes move from Boots to the paperwork and back again.

Ania's hand is in her Bunny's and she squeezes it a little as if trying to pull strength from it or something. Though when she steps in with him, she has her head held high and has that expression of a bored rich person that she's learned so well. The one that /she/ thinks reads she's not scared but really probably just makes her look like a complete bitch. She's dressed in one of the outfits specifically chosen so she looks the part of the QUODEL delegation and not super-trendy or anything and her hair is up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She stares at Trask, not blinking or anything, with that expression on her face and keeps her hand in Evan's. "I take it he's the one you mentioned?" she asks quietly, though she keeps her eyes on Trask.

On auto-pilot, the moment that all-too-familiar voice is heard, Kal is savoring one last lungful of smoke before carefully putting the cigarette out for later use. For a jerk, he's very considerate about Evan's asthma. "More doodles, Buns?" One is already tacked up. "This place'll look like a Kubrick's Cube in no time." He's yet to look up from what he's perusing and likely won't until he senses the pilot is next to the desk.

Evandreus looks aside to Ani and gives her a little jostle to try to shatter a little bit of that ice-queen exterior. "No, no piccies," Evan almost sounds apologetic for that, but then, tone brightening as he comes up to the front of the desk. "This is Ani. She's up on deck with the civvies. She's got a -little- bit of flight experience. Like… a really little bit," he will warn. "But I told her, y'know," he looks aside to her, lest he seem to just be talking -about- her rather than to her, "We might as well talk to Boots and see what he thinks." And then back to Bootsies.

"Hello, /Boots/. Ania Kostasia," Ani offers, holding out her hand. Probably right in the way of his paperwork. "I was told you need pilots and I thought I'd give it a whirl." A whirl. Like it's some whim or something. "Unless you don't need any, then I can head back to my mending clothes and doing my nails." A glance at her nails shows she has /not/ been doing her nails. She once had a very nice manicure. It's been a while, though.

"Unforgivable," is the droll rebuke over the lack of piccies, "but you still have to try to make it up to me." Har. Har. When LTJG Doe is finally within suitable proximity, Bootstrap sets down what he was reading but retains the pen in his left hand. Brown eyes dart to Evan, then to Ania, where they settle in silent scrutiny that conveys an intensity of thought without hinting at the actual content. "Hello, /Ani/." The woman's hand is left there to dangle. Instead, Trask leans back in his rolling chair. "I'd shake," he says with faux apology, "but I just had mine done." Right hand lifted, it could be seen that there is some dirt in his nail beds. Fingers are even wiggled for emphasis. "So," he continues in a neutral tone that surely is derisive in sentiment, "tell me about this really little bit of flight experience that you have."

Evandreus has a feeling he'll be making -this- one up to Boots, too, at some point in the near future. He doesn't get into the middle of the meeting, anymore, but he slides around to the side of Boots' desk. "Here, hon, lemme take care of some of this for you." He gotten very well indoctrinated into Boots' paperwork preferences while he was off the flight line, after all. "And you two can talk," he adds, like some sort of well-intentioned matchmaker.

Ania crosses her arms over her chest a bit and looks around for somewhere to sit down. "I'd get your money back, they did a horrible job," she mentions of his nails, her delivery deadpan though she does manage a hint of a smirk. "I've flown a cruiser a few times. My parents had one." Oh yeah. She flew a space ferrari. "I'd use it to get back and forth from the University, which was on the main planet, and my parents' home. Granted, it wasn't as …" flimsy? "…compact as the vipers or anything, I'm sure the basic controls must be similar. I learn fairly quickly." Her eyes glance toward Evan for a moment, then back to Trask.

Bunny had better have kept the gift receipt. "Clearly," Kal drily replies, "you are not familiar with a mechanic manicure." It's like a Virgan manicure, except short, dirty, and way more awesome. Pish-posh. "What model of cruiser?" He's direct, even if not seeming all that interested. With a faint smirk of his own, he also notes, "Well, I'm sure that any Viper jock not taking the piss will tell you otherwise." There isn't much in the way of chairs. After all, it's a cubicle, not an office. One could always be stolen from someone else's workstation, though.

As for the paperwork-seeking pilot, Trask lifts his left hand in a halting 'leave it' manner.

Evandreus leaves it. A well-trained pup, he stops hovering, just standing at the side of the desk and folding his arms behind his back, letting the SL do his thing.

Ania, not finding a chair, sits on the edge of Trask's desk. Which is hard to do when you're trying to keep your legs crossed and you're wearing a slim pencil skirt like she is. She doesn't bother stealing a chair from another workstation. "Eclipse," she offers. It's the equivalent of an overpriced wanna-be racer. Probably had crazy flames and lights and weird detailing on it, too. "And the placement of the controls might not be the same, but the /idea/ of them is, right? Besides, I could very well be the best pilot you've ever seen. You've never seen me in action. I don't really think it'd be fair of you to pass any sort of judgment just yet."

"You don't have a permit to park your ass there," is simply noted, "and this /is/ a tow zone." As for the Eclipse, the ECO sarcastically concurs, "Oh, apart from all the ordnance, the DRADIS console, encrypted channels, and the ejection seat, they're probably /very/ similar." Uh-huh. "You also could be the worst pilot I've ever seen," Trask blithely points out. Judgment, however, has already been passed. Flying isn't even part of the assessment. "I'm betting you'll be occupying that end of the spectrum." The one that says SUCK. "Not my call, though. You wanna give it a whirl," her words, not his, "speak with Major Hahn." To emphasize that this is the end of the conversation, he swivels to regard Evan and asks, "Anything else, JiG?"

Jig? Evan hunches just a little bit, unused to -that- sort of address from Boots, even now that he's SL. "Nah. That's it," he answers back, hands swinging around from in back and landing briefly on the side edge of the desk before he pushes up into something less slouchy. "I'll, uh. See you later."

"I /could/ be the worst pilot you've ever seen," Ania says as she slides the inch off the edge of the desk she was occupying. "I never said it wasn't going to take /work/. I just said I at least have some idea of what I'd be up against. But thank you for your support. I'll be sure not to let you down."

Picking up the document he'd been reading before being interrupted, Bootstrap, lets off a jaunty, little, "Later, Bunny-boy." Not one much for formality, he doesn't even bother saying 'dismissed', and he certainly isn't going to call Evan to task for the lack of saluting. Which, really, is all par for the course. Much like an absently tacked on, "Yeah, you do that," for Ania.

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