PHD #115: Cynics, Realists, and Idealists
Cynics, Realists, and Idealists
Summary: Jase, Sawyer and Rejn talk politics and social responsibility while the recruitment drive goes on around them.
Date: 21 Jun 2041 AE
Related Logs: None
Cora Jase Madilyn Petroski Rejn Sawyer 
Hangar Deck - Starboard
This Hangar Bay is filled with boxes, crates and other various supplies that are needed throughout the ship. Most have been moved to one end and lashed with tarps to keep them out of the way. The place has gone from extra ship storage on one end and the ability to house over 450 people on the other end. Whatever could be made into cots has been set up like a huge barracks. Some areas have been made more presentable with a few items that belong to the person holding onto their small area in this world.
Marines guard this area 24/7 and food is brought in cafeteria style, feeding people out of vats and buckets as they line up with their plates. One area has been tarped off to the side, that holds canvas showers and sinks. The 'Head' in this area has to be cleaned daily since it is a temporary military bathroom setup, due to there is no way to flush it out through pipes.
Post-Holocaust Day: #115

The rhythm of the ersatz refugee camp in the hanger is more or less defined by the routines of maintaining a human population. Meals, showers, sanitation. People are already falling into that rhythm and the survivors are milling about waiting for dinner, not that far away. Jase, on the other hand, isn't all that hungry. He looks a bit pale, jumpy and nauseous and he's trying to settle his stomach and mind by tuning his guitar.

Sawyer has what most of these civilians dream of: high clearance. As such, the reporter can move in and out of the flow of the Hangar Bay with ease and the flash of her credentials. She looks as if there's a snappy pep to her step, which might be attributed to the sharp clothes she wears. Overall, she seems very put together, which is distinctly out of place down here in the refugee camp where most are only left with what's literally on their backs. One seems fortunate enough to have a guitar, however, and the tuning of that instrument has her gaze drawn away from the MP with whom she's conversing. A brow quirks high on her forehead, and eventually Sawyer extracts herself from that tete-a-tete and eventually drifts in Jase's direction.

Jase looks up at Sawyer as she approaches and his fingers still on the strings. He gives the woman a careful once-over look and a cautious, nervous smile. He says, "Hello." He pauses and says, "Military Intelligence? Some kind of spook?" He sets the guitar aside, rather carefully, on the other side of his body from Sawyer and looks back to her. "I'm guessing this about my security interview?"

There's a hint of her smile as Jase voices his speculation as to Sawyer's current occupation aboard the ship, nimble fingers turning the placard hanging around her neck which clearly labels her in big bold letters as 'PRESS'. "Something like that. Can I sit?" Without waiting for confirmation, she plops down next to the guitar wielding man, toeing off her expensive shoes. "After a month in combat boots, I'm not used to walking around in these torture devices anymore. Ugh." Toes wiggle in their stocking enclosure, a sigh of relief plain on her face even as it's vocalized. "You had to go through a security interview? Just as I thought then."

Jase gives the press card a careful look and says dryly, "Worse than Intelligence. At least they have regulations." He does look distinctly relieved, though as he scoots over and gestures to the bunk. "Please." Though of course by then courtesy is a moot point. His expression is faintly amused at that and he looks over the shoes with a critical eye, that sardonic, dry tone still intact as he says, "I confine myself to flats, personally. I just don't have the calves for heels." At the question he nods and says, "Fairly painless. And I could have probably lied to the initial interviewer. But you know how it is with these guys. Even after the end of the world, there are going to be backup records somewhere."

Sawyer leans forward slightly, expecting his legs despite their clothed state. "A waxing would do you wonders…" She straightens back up, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of her trouser pocket. "If I were you, I wouldn't call it lying. Call it…a creative interpretation of the truth. Do you smoke?" The blue pack she waggles in the negative space between them has been previously opened, only about a quarter of a pack rattling around in there now.

Jase snorts and then laughs. He shakes his head, "No, that was never one of my bad habits. Feel free, though." He thinks over that advice about being creative and finally shrugs. "Well, what's that old cliche? It isn't a stance unless you take it when somebody's likely to hit you for it?' It seemed to be that kind of moment." He tilts his head and then offers his hand. "Jase. Hylas. Pleased to meet you."

Sawyer shakes out a cigarette part way, gripping it with her lips to pull it the rest of the way free. The valuable pack is tucked back away, fingers replacing it with a lighter. "Pleased?" She mumbles around the cigarette like a champ, unable to deny being a smoker any longer after Leonis. "Just a moment ago, you said I was worse then Intelligence, so which is it?" The reporter has a habit of asking question she doesn't wait for an answer to, instead she's slipping her hand into his. "Sawyer Averies, formerly of Acropolis Monthly, currently of …Battlestar Cerberus."

Jase grins a bit wider and says, "Maybe I'm a masochist." He shrugs and continues, "I'm human. I've dealt with enough press members to be wary of you. But, I'm trying to -not- prejudge. Thus I'm pleased to meet you." He lays out the points in a logical tone, as though one point flows naturally into the next. He pauses at her self-identification and says, "You've joined the military? That's … surprising."

Sawyer mmms a sound that's noncommital as she lights her cigarette, pausing long enough to exhale smoke and tuck her ligher away. The filter of her cigarette gets pinched between the first knuckles of her fore and middle finger and pulled loose from her lips. "Work /with/, not for. But my options are kind of limited at the moment. Not a lot of work out there for a journalists when there is no longer any newspapers or magazines in circulation. Besides, if I took the commission and became an officer, I wouldn't get to hang out in my delightfully uncomfortable shoes anymore. Why would that be surprising?"

Jase listens to the explanation and nods. At the question he shrugs faintly and says, "Because now, more than maybe any time in our history, we people with an objective eye and a neutral viewpoint reporting back to the people what they see. What's going on. Who's doing what and why. And a platform to do that is just about any wireless set on the ship. You pretty much have a captive audience, don't you?"

Sawyer's smile curves up but gets hidden by another drag of her cigarette. "Until the MPs manage to tackle me and throw me in the brig. There is no such thing as neutral anymore. 'Existance' seems pretty cut and dry, if you ask me. Which…you really haven't, but that's alright. So…what do you mean 'we'?"

Jase blinks and says, "Sorry, I meant to say we -need- people." He rubs his forehead and says, "Bad couple of days. Even by recent standards. And there has to be more to it than just 'existence'. That isn't a goal. It's just a state of being. You might as well aspire to solid, liquid, gaseous or plasmatic." He stands, pacing a little in nervous energy and looks down at Sawyer. "All I'm saying is that it seems to me that there is just one voice right now. The military voice. Shouting orders. That isn't the way it should be."

"Solid is how you wish you could sleep. Liquid is how most of us wish our diet could be, but there just isn't enough alcohol. Gaseos is after you eat in the mess hall and Plasmatic is….lacking an appropriate quip." Sawyer wets her bottom lip with a tap of her tongue, sticking the paper of her cigarette to it where it hangs dubiously while she talks. "Martial law, my friend. Though rest assured, if the civilians didn't have some what of a voice, we'd all be conscripted by now."

Jase shakes his head and says, "Martial law declared by whom? And who elected them to do it?" He frowns deeply, looking away from Sawyer, "I'm sorry, but I'm not so blithely willing to give up on the ideas of freedom and democracy." He stops pacing and looks back to the reporter. "And siting 'it would be worse' as your evidence is sloppy thinking." He looks over the bay full of people and tilts his head towards them and then back to Sawyer. "Why aren't their voices just as important as the guys with the guns? Or more so?"

"Solid is how you wish you could sleep. Liquid is how most of us wish our diet could be, but there just isn't enough alcohol. Gaseos is after you eat in the mess hall and Plasmatic is….lacking an appropriate quip." Sawyer wets her bottom lip with a tap of her tongue, sticking the paper of her cigarette to it where it hangs dubiously while she talks. "Martial law, my friend. Though rest assured, if the civilians didn't have some what of a voice, we'd all be conscripted by now."

Jase shakes his head and says, "Martial law declared by whom? And who elected them to do it?" He frowns deeply, looking away from Sawyer, "I'm sorry, but I'm not so blithely willing to give up on the ideas of freedom and democracy." He stops pacing and looks back to the reporter. "And siting 'it would be worse' as your evidence is sloppy thinking." He looks over the bay full of people and tilts his head towards them and then back to Sawyer. "Why aren't their voices just as important as the guys with the guns? Or more so?"'

Sawyer actually has the audacity to laugh at Jase, the sound rich as she leans over and ashes her cigarette in the main thoroughfare where it'll get trampled away or sweeped up by janitorial. "If individual voices are so important to you, why do you insist on putting words in my mouth?" Sawyer is sitting on the end of Jase's bunk, once more at home in her tailored suits, though her high heels have been kicked off much to the happiness of her tootsies.

Jase shakes his head and reaches down to flick Sawyer's press pass. "If I'm putting words in your mouth it's because you can't be bothered to speak for yourself, apparently. Or for us. Or to us." He gives her a once-over look again that encompasses the cigarette, something of a luxury and the clean, neat clothing and heels. "Then again, I guess that has its own rewards." His tone is studiously neutral at that.

Sawyer's smile melts away, though there's still a vague bemusement in her eyes. "And yet, here I am. Speaking /to/ you. And the fact that you claim there is an 'us' and a 'them', and fail to even consider the military standpoint in this situation, you're rather failing at that 'Neutral' term you seem to be fond of throwing around. You're rather quick to judge, aren't you, Jase?" She leans over to collect her shoes by crooking them on her fingers.

People notice when Rejn strolls into a room, and not only because the ground itself seems to tremble at each ponderous step. Like usual, he announces his presence with a gruff, jolly smile, patting on the shoulders the pair of Marines standing at attention at the hatch. "Looking sharp, Dee," he says in passing. This to Diesel, first name Chuck. "You lose some weight on Leonis, eh? C-Cup over here — " A jerk of his thumb to the stern-faced blonde to his left. "She can't keep her eyes off you."

"Nice to see you too, sir," the rifleman chuckles, blushing a little. "And — really, she couldn't?"

"Yeah," drawls said blonde, her tone as dismissive as her expression. "You're like a three-legged dog, and oh. Frak you too, fatty."

At that, Rejn allows himself a truly belly-shaking laugh — and with his greetings out of the way, he's trundling his way past a couple of civilians at the food line, withdrawing a flask from the breast pocket of his lounge suit as he does. And after a long, powerful swig, his narrow eyes find their target: "Averies!" he calls, his surprisingly high voice shaking not a few daydreamers from their respective reveries. "Shit!"

Jase shakes his head and says, "Just the opposite. I took a good, long time to form my opinion about the military mindset and the damage it does to good people. And to society in general." He starts to continue but is distracted by the arrival of Rejn. A flicker of recognition and surprise shows in his expression and he glances towards Sawyer as though to gauge her reaction to the sudden arrival.

Sawyer slips off the edge of Jase's bunk with the same informality she used to invite herself to sit, "So you're already predisposed towards intolerance despite this being an unprecedented situation. Interesting…" Sawyer's voice drifts off as someone calls her name, and she straightens up to her full height so she can find the source of it. A smile reblooms on her features, "Allan! You old coot! You missed me, didn't you?" She takes a few steps in that direction, hitching her chin back in the direction of Jase to indicate him. "You should meet my good friend Jase Hylas, here. You'd have fun with this one."

"Figured Mikey sent you down there to get rid of you," says Rejn, eyes twinkling, flask trembling. His smile, though, is thin — the thinnest part of him, as a point of fact. "Guy's a Cylon, it turns out, or just working for them, or however goes the rumor." The smile widens ever so slightly. "I heard that and suddenly everything made sense." And without asking for permission, he's swaying forward to catch the reporter in his arms for a brief, awkward hug. The fact that his flask slams into her skull with a thud worries him not in the least. Then, after disentangling himself from that moment of human contact, his attention flicks abruptly to the other fellow nearby. "You don't want this one, Averies," he grunts after a second or two of silent evaluation. "Don't think you're his type, but that's because you don't have branches and leaves."

Jase gives Sawyer a look as though he wants to continue the discussion but he holds off given the new company and the apparent friendship of the two. He blinks at the phrase 'Guy's a Cylon', looking more than a little surprised as he processes it. "That rumor was true then. About the human-form Cylons. That's … actually a good sign, I think." Rejn's assessment gets an arched eyebrow and a faint, sardonic smile, apparently choosing to not to pursue a discussion of his 'type'. "Mr. Rejn. I am genuinely honored to meet you, sir. I've followed your work for a while now. And applied some of your grass roots techniques in getting my own organization off the ground." He holds out his hand to shake.

Petroski arrives from the Dual Stairway.

Sawyer doesn't hug Rejn back fully, as her hands are occupied with shoes in one and her cigarette in the other, but she does a good approximation of one until she gets clunked upside the head with his flask. "Easy there, big guy." She murmurs, stepping back with the heel of her smoke wielding hand grinding into the back of her skull in rueful pain. "Yeah, I heard about that. I'm going to pull every favor I have with Clive to see if I can get in to see Michael." Damn woman's on first name basis with everyone, it seems. "But don't worry, they can't get rid of me that easily." She looks back to Jase, then to Rejn. "How the hell do you make instant friends, and I'm already the damn enemy, hmm?"

"It's because my tits are bigger than yours, Averies." And to Hylas: "No shit?" Rejn's eyes widen as much as they're able, his massive hand closing around that of the boy half his age. It's the handshake of man with consummate practice — firm, friendly, and impersonal. "Takes all kinds, as they say. Wish I could hand you an internship, kid, but there's the nasty matter of my old office being a pile of smoldering ash." His smile shows his yellowed teeth. "I'm out of desks. So what'd you do? Smoke up, close your eyes, and try to levitate a battlestar with the power of your collective mind?" And now comes another loud guffaw that sets his not-insignificant flesh a-quiver, though his canny gaze doesn't waver from the other man's face.

Jase glances at Sawyer and grins. "You're not the enemy, Miss. But, ah, think of it in terms of meditative techniques. Sometimes when you want to provoke enlightenment, a short, sharp blow can startle somebody out of themselves long enough to see the world." He seems a bit bemused at Rejn's manner and takes his hand back after the shake. One eyebrow arches and he says, "We were a little more proactive than that. Though I really should have tried the whole psychic powers thing. It might have saved us some time in the long run." His tone is very dry at that.

Sawyer gives a quiet snicker as she looks to her stocking feet, splaying out her toes in the pantyhose confines as if trying to get used to wearing such monstrosities again. "Jase and I were just talking about the civilian voice on the ship, Allan, when he tried to give me a good sharp blow. You ready to reconsider running for office?"

Petroski is a man on a mission and it seems the mission has brought him here for a second time in about twelve hours. It's probably the news that people are being interviewed that draws him here this time, taking that as a chance to get his foot in the door as far as getting enlisted goes. As always, he's under the watchful eye of his escort, this one a sassy little brunette lass from Virgon, it being her time to make with the babysitting, this hopefully being the last time this will be necessary.

"Wouldn't you be the one doing the giving?" Back goes Rejn's head as he takes another swig, and then the flask is handed over to the reporter. She looks thirsty — but to him, everybody does. And when the temptation of drink has been well and truly resisted, he returns his attention to Jase: "Funny, kid, but that wasn't an answer." His manner is still as avuncular as ever, but there's nothing gentle about that retort — but just as quickly as a whip is cracked, it's withdrawn into its usual coil. "Any random frak who gets his rocks off being arrested can bang down doors and raise the godsdamned hundred-handed giants from Tartarus." Like he did. "What you did it for, that's the question."

Jase nods at Sawyer's comment and then nods at Petroski and the man's escort in passing as they appear to be passing. He looks back to Rejn and his own grin is a bit wolfish as he says, "No, sir. It wasn't an answer." Apparently his ego isn't big enough to be drawn into boasting. His expression becomes more serious as he says, "And as for why? It was to help save Leonis. And all the colonies really. My world was being transformed from a culture that did undisputed good, feeding the hungry, to yet another arm feeding the cavernous maw of the military-industrial complex. And a lot of us didn't like it and didn't want it. So we took a stand."

It ain't no big secret that the CMC and Air-Wing are doing their thang to help build up some numbers that have, regrettably, been lost over the last few months. What better place to focus recruitment efforts on than the hangar full of civvies and other rescuees from the last places the ship's been? Today does happen to be Petroski's lucky day though, as Madilyn is putting in an appearance now that the peeps have had a few days to get settled and make their decisions. It only takes a little chat with the MPs on duty to get the ball rolling, and Madilyn's heard a few folks are interested in having a little chat about joining up. The tall blonde steps in not long after Petroski and escort, but of course, she has no idea that he's the one looking for her.

Sawyer lifts her head with a flick to get some hair out from her eyes. The reporter doesn't take the flask, even if for a glimmer she looks sorely tempted to. "I'll take that as a 'no'." She says wryly to Rejn's blatant disregard for her question. "I'll leave you two boys to your debate. Lords of Kobol know I have enough work to do, I was just looking for some…inspiration. Seems I've found it."

The MP escort smacks Daniel in the back of his shoulder only to then point when he turns to glare at her, the dour frown disappearing once she whispers the fact that the Major has arrived to him. That gets him to nod and quickly agree to follow her, that MP swiftly depositing him before Madilyn before asking permission to be dismissed (someone's a wee bit tired of having him hit on her, it seems). While she's waiting to high-tail it out of here Daniel waits, a hand ruffling through his newly redone high-and-tight, silently waiting to be addressed.

Oh well. More for him — as evinced by the speed by which he withdraws said flask and takes another swig. "Hey, Averies. Glad you're not a bloodstain on the bottom of a Cylon boot." His expression turns serious for just as long as necessary to say that — and for a moment, a flash of, well, something else crosses his expression. "We'll talk later." And to Jase: "Pretty talk, kid. So what'd you get for it? Change anything?" Arms fold across his chest as he offers the younger man a flask. Danny getting smacked by a brunette MP draws no comment from him, though the appearance of Big Brass does elicit a squint or two.

Jase glances at Sawyer and says, "Well, that's a start, I guess." He glances at Rejn and says, "The only thing that matters, sir. Minds. We changed minds." He takes the flask with a nod of thanks and takes a swig, grimacing a bit. "Gah. The world isn't over -enough- for me to like that." That faintly ironic smile is back in place as he hands the flask back to the Secretary and says, "Not enough before the end. But we were getting there." He looks around the hanger bay, noting the recruitment drive and shaking his head, "Going to be an uphill battle here, I think."

Sawyer squeezes Rejn on the arm and even flashes Jase a good natured wink, and then the Reporter is off, pausing a few steps away to slip on her high heels lest her pretty pretty stockings get ruined on the deck.

A quick nod gets the MP dismissed, and then Madilyn's left alone with Petroski in a vaguely quietish open space - really, just a stake of open deck where people aren't pressing in on all sides. Close enough, though, that people could probably overhear. Madilyn isn't too too familiar with many of the faces here, but would probably be able to recall names, given all the records that have flown across her desk for clearances for this and that and the other. "So, you're one of the folks looking to make a career change, correct?" She folds her arms over her stomach idly while she starts to talk.

Cora detatches from her own MP escort as she enters the hangar, moving through the civilian quarters, weaving through cots at an easy pace. She comes upon Jase and Rejn first, and nods politely in recognition to the first, greeting him, "Mr. Hylas, good evening." Rejn gets another nod, lacking that specific greeting.

Petroski nods. "Yes, ma'am," Daniel responds, using the honorific he's used to using instead of the 'sir' that is used in the Colonial military. "I was hoping to join us as an MP, if you'll allow me." There's no mention of his copious amounts of education or his former employment, those kind of details left for the Major to ask for.

"Yeah. Minds." A derisive snort. "One thing I learned after twelve years on the outside? Little guy's opinion matters for shit. Asshole bureaucrats don't give a flying frak about the little guy. Break their balls by taking their parking spot, though? They listen to that." Rejn's smile smacks of satisfaction. "And stop calling me 'sir.' Call them 'sir.'" Rejn nods over at Madilyn and her victim with something like distaste. "It's Al, or Allan, or Mister Secretary if I don't like you, so we'll stick with Al unless you say you don't like this Barrister Ten one more time." Well, that's something at least — though whether it's genuine or not remains to be seen, even if the politician is on his third tipple in as many minutes. More, though, is forestalled by Cora's appearance. "Wow," is his initial response. "If I needed a secretary, you'd be my first pick."

Jase gives Cora a nod and a faint smile, "Lieutenant. Good evening." He looks back to Rejn and listens to the the man speak, nodding in agreement in a couple of places. "I agree. But there are more ways than just talking to change people's minds, S… er, Al." He shrugs and says, "I did say that we took a more proactive path. And it was one that was bearing fruit." He follows the man's gaze and shakes his head, "And that, that's a fraking tragedy. Even now. Even -now- the military consumes. Eats up resources even when the only resources that matter are lives and minds. It's like a virus. The mindset, that is."

"Ok, give me the short and sweet version. Name, age, and your very short life-story. Did we pick you up along the way, or is this a career change for you like a few of our new enlistees? Have you had any schooling?" While she asks Petroski those questions, she can't help but listen into the other nearby conversations and raise a brow at Rejn and Jase.

Cora looks at Rejn for a beat after that comment, and then replies, "Would that be Secretary of Defense or Secretary of the Navy? I'd be best qualified for one of those over the others." As Jase goes on her attention naturally turns back his way and then she remarks, "Assuming Mr. Hylas here doesn't manage to do away with those posts entirely, of course."

Rejn's voice. God how familiar it is to Petroski who looks over his shoulder only to have his gaze fall immediately upon the over-weight man, the sight of whom gets him to wrinkle his nose. "He has no frakkin' class, now does he love," the query posed to the one conducting his interview without his even noticing he does so until it's too late. Clearing his throat, he quirks a fast grin that's mostly apologetic but it's not verbalized as he's now answering her questions. "Daniel Petroski, 33, former poltical aide to the former QUODEL rep for Virgon. I have a degree from Caprica University where I majored in poltical science and minored in religion and agriculture." He pauses to mull over what he has said so far, gathering his thoughts before continuing on. "I was brought aboard the ship on Warday, and, seeing as how my Angel's no longer able to serve the QUODEL, you can say that I am indeed looking for a new job, yes." Phew.

Nope. No class at all, which is why Rejn roars in sudden laughter at Cora's response, his jowls twitching — conveniently, too, since he kills the laughter with more of that sweet Barrister Ten. "That'd make me President," he says when he's through, "and trust me, you don't want that. I'm Al. Drink?" The flask's offered once again before he turns back to Jase. "Now's a bit different from four months ago, kid," he notes, though the observation is devoid of its usual acerbity. "Fleet folks get themselves killed for people like me when I'm pretty sure none of them want anything to do with us." As evinced by Madilyn's little brow-quirk. "Need them, kid, even if we don't like it. But me, I say we leave the system quicker than Magda's first boyfriend after he found out I had a shotgun. If the Cylons follow, we tear off their heads and shit down their mechanical spines like we all want to — but they won't. What's a couple thousand after fifty billion?" Because those really are the brutal numbers. "And then we can start talking about dismantling the military-industrial blah-blah-blah or whatever the frak they feed you boys at university these days."

Jase shakes his head at Cora, grinning and says, "You -really- don't want to hear my 'collectivist' theory of government. But no, we don't need leaders that way." He looks back to Rejn and says, "I'm extremely grateful to the men and women of the military for what they've done for me. For all of us. Those actions, though, do not automatically make the system that they've been trained to operate under automatically correct for all situations. And I don't believe that we should be prosecuting a war on any terms. If that means running, fine. If it means trying to find a peaceful solution, at least long enough to drag out any other survivors, even better." He shrugs. "Because with all due respect to the fighting ability of the Fleet and their formidable abilities, 'tearing off their heads' seems like the worst kind of bravado. Unsupportable bravado."

"Excellent, another college brain. I like having them in my command, in all honesty. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the person who enlists at 17 right out of secondary school, but I like to have marines that can think themselves out of a jam rather than blasting their way out. To which representative were you an aid?" Madilyn asks the man, continuing to gather the information and judge initial eligibility in her head, before getting it down on paper. "Have you had any prior run-ins with my MPs while aboard Cerberus? In other words, since you're presumably in our local computer systems, I'm not going to find a record with a lot of black marks am I?"

"I'm sure you're right," Cora replies of not wanting Rejn to be president before shaking her head at the offer of a drink, "Thank you, no. Lt. Cora Nikephoros," she offers in introduction after his 'Al', "Of the military-industrial establishment." That last is directed a bit more at Jase, lips curving slightly with the words, "And I'd be happy to hear about your collectivist theories of government so long as you don't mind my disagreeing with them on a half-dozen points at least." The plans offered by the two men are listened to with faint amusement, but she offers no comment on either of them at the moment.

Petroski's glad his faux pas went without commentary from the Marine, it allowing for him to relax a bit even while the interview continues. "I understand. I can see where that'd be a boon." Another pause and then Madilyn's arm is touched and he tilts his head, trying to encourage her to follow him for a moment. "I was the aide to Delegate Wilson but she has kind of succumbed to age and stress, the war having put a strain on her poor brain. As for records? Unless someone tried to press charges that I do not know about, no. I was on my best behavior for all you lovely boys and girls."

"Well she's a cold fish, isn't she," says Rejn. "Good on you, Cor. You got the sexy librarian thing down pat. Stay away from the engineers; I hear the FTL guys can't keep their hands to themselves." And with another one of his private little chortles his attention flicks back to Jase. "You ever seen a Centurion, kid, up close?" The man's smile reveals plenty of yellowed teeth. "That frakking red that goes bzoom-bzoom-bzoom, just like that?" His pudgy index finger moves from one side of his face to the other and back again in time with his pathetic attempt at sound effects. "They came aboard one night and started shooting up the entire ship, and oh, I forgot, there was that whole bit about them nuking us without asking whether or not we'd kindly unconditionally surrender over cream tea and cucumber sandwiches." The stream of words is interrupted by a derisive snort. "Peace is nice when you can afford it," is the man's conclusion, spoken with finality as he leans against a bulkhead. Perhaps the whiskey's finally hitting him — or perhaps this, too, is an act. "Forty years of untrammeled prosperity and yeah, peace is cheap. Now? Well. If they still come after us even when we turn our tail like properly scared suitors of my eldest daughter, kid, I'll let you be the one to stare into those frakking bzoom-bzoom eyes singing nice songs with flowers in your hair."

Jase laughs and nods at Cora's words and then looks profoundly disappointed at Rejn's opinions. He shakes his head and says, "No, I haven't been face to face with a Cylon, thank the gods. But consider this, every creature acts and reacts according to its nature. The Cylons have either acted or reacted. Something either changed or prodded them. And we created them in our image. Mentally, that is. So whatever stimulus occurred, they probably did something a lot like what -we- would do. Because they're us. Magnified. Or diminished. They're our minds as we conceive ourselves. That's the nature of artificial intelligence." He pauses and glances towards the sanitation area, "And it's just about time for my shower. Nobody would thank me for missing my turn. But a last thought… if the rumors of humanoid Cylons are true, then I think we -do- have common ground with them. The very fact that they are emulating us suggests that they want that connection. Even if they don't know it, consciously." He shrugs. "But … this isn't getting me clean. Have a good evening, folks."

When Petroski touches her arm, Madilyn immediately reacts, aheming quite loudly and pulling her arm away. "I will remind you, Mr. Petroski, that you are still a civilian, and that not even my Marines would call me 'love.' In fact, they would call me Sir, or Major Cavanaugh. Willows-Cavanaugh if you're not into the whole brevity thing, as that name-change may or may not be totally legal, with the destruction of Colonial records. If you want me to follow, I would strongly advise you ask." Long story short, you don't frak with the boss when you're trying to get a job.

"Sorry sir. I meant no offense by any of it, truly. Am just still…a…yeah. Sorry." Danny's been properly put in his place and all the blunderbuss is put away, leaving him looking genuinely apologetic. "Anyhow, those are my credentials, sir. Not sure if I'm young enough to be enlisted as an MP but that's where I'd love to be put if you think I would fit in."

"I'm so glad you think so, I've been working on it for months now," Cora replies dryly, "And don't worry, your portrayal of the scuzzy pervert in the back stacks is coming off perfectly." She doesn't wait to listen to more of the semi-political bantering between the two men, just nodding politely to Jase and saying, "Mr. Hylas, if you'll excuse me. Al," she adds to Rejn, the name imbued with that subtle disdain Caprican accents are so suited to, "Good evening to you both."

"Yeah." Cora's jab receives — nothing at all in response save a quick and distracted chuckle. Really? He gives up that easily? Apparently he will — for Rejn will say nothing more even as his narrowed eyes follow the departing Hylas for a good thirty seconds, those piercing blue irises searing into the younger man's shoulders until they finally disappear behind the hatch. Maybe it was something the guy said. But eventually, Allan too will push himself off the bulkhead, trundling off into the bowels of the ship while taking his deepest swig yet from that already-lightened flask. A short, quiet "Nice meeting you" — and he, too, is gone.

"Well, we haven't exactly gotten you into Marine shape yet. By the end of training, adapted though it will have to be given our present circumstances, we'll have the rules drilled right into your head. If you're serious about joining up, I'll ask that you be escorted to my office for the full paperwork. However, I want to do as much of that at one time, so it'll be with a few other interested parties, if you don't mind. And no, there's no real 'too old for an MP.' Either you pass muster or you don't. We'll soon find out." And with a slightly less-snarky inflection than Cora used just a moment ago, Madilyn excuses herself and makes for the hatch herself, preliminary task complete.

"Yes, sir. I'll present myself tomorrow, first thing in the morning." Danny winces slightly and then, once Madilyn's given a respectful amount of distance between her person and his own, he too steps off. "Great frakkin' job," he snarks to himself in tones that are dark and disgruntled. "Oh, but Jesse would just be thrilled if he were to find out I almost ruined my chances to join up." The mention of Stavrain has Danny suddenly quiet once his little rant's done and over with, his mood sobering. He looks around, notices Cora who gets a faint nod and an equally minute smile, any jovial demeanor he was exhibiting prior to this moment not to be found.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License