BCH #016: Ensigns With Questions
Ensigns With Questions
Summary: Tisiphone comes to berthings in search of someone with an answer to her question. That someone is Laskaris.
Date: 016 BCH
Related Logs: None
Laskaris Tisiphone 

— [ Viper Squadron ] —— [ Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus ]—

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: 3 - All Clear ]=-

Another day, another shift. Viper berthings are probably the most quiet place on the ship now; being that the ship doesn't exactly need an air wing in drydock, most of the pilots haven't even arrived yet. Laskaris is here, though; he's just gotten out of the shower, wearing only a pair of skivvies and a single tank top as he pulls out a fresh uniform and finishes toweling off his hair.

Enter one (1) harried-looking Tisiphone from the corridor. She's carrying a small handheld computer, tapping and dragging at the screen in the manner of every other lost person on the Cerberus, and trailing a string of muttered profanities. Upon crossing the threshhold into the room, she starts to relax a bit — only to stop short upon spotting Laskaris. She waffles there, a step into the room, doing her best clueless git impression.

Towel gets tossed to the bed; Lasher hastily runs a hand through his mostly dry hair. A hand grabs the blues jacket off his bed, the lieutenant's insignia on the collar shining brightly as he throws the jacket over his shoulders. He cranes his neck as he hears Tisiphone's muttered profanities, slate-colored eyes fixing upon the newcomer as his brow ticks slightly upwards. Silence hangs in the air a moment as he watches her expectantly, but nothing is forthcoming; Laskaris speaks first, his eyes flicking from her handcomp to her face and back. "You just going to stand there watching me change, or do you need something?" he asks, an impatient edge to his voice. "Frak's sake, it's not that good of a show."

If the sheer force of embarrassment could turn a person transparent, Tisiphone would cheerfully melt into oblivion right about now. Her weight shifts forward onto her toes, then back again, as if she wanted to move forward only to find herself riveted to the floor. "Sir! I wasn't-" Except she was, technically, standing there staring. "I didn't mean-" Okay, now she's starting to get flustered. She looks down at her booted toes, clears her throat determinedly once, then again. "Sorry, Sir. For interrupting. I've got a problem with my flight suit, and I don't know who to ask."

Laskaris enjoys a short throaty laugh at Tisiphone's expense. "Calm down, lass. It's fine." His voice is heavy with the harsh accent of the Aerilon highlands. The pilot quickly pulls on his pants, though the jacket of his uniform is left unbuttoned. "I'm hardly offended." He turns back to his rack for a moment, pulling a pack of cigarettes off the shelf above his pillow. Lighting one, he wordlessly offers Tisiphone the pack as he approaches her. His lips are pursed slightly as she asks her question. "Problem with your flightsuit? What sort of problem?"

Tisiphone hesitates over the offer of cigarettes, clearly tempted. After a moment of internal debate, she shakes her head. "Thank you, Sir." She powers down her tablet computer, clips it to her belt, and then clasps her hands behind her back. Her weight shifts back and forth as she stands there. She'd probably bounce like an overwound toy if given a chance. "The Cerberus flight suits are a different model than the ones we had in flight school, Sir. I'm having a problem getting the seal to lock on my left wrist." The wrist with the bulky-looking cuff on it. "I know how to fix it- I…" Deep breath. "I know if I just go ahead and do it, it'll be some huge regs violation I didn't realize and I need someone to sign off on it, but I don't know who."

Lasher's smokes go down into his pocket, the pilot giving an indifferent shrug. He takes a long breath as he listens to her question, leaning against the table with his arms crossed over his chest. Twin jets of smoke are exhaled through his nose a moment later. He nods slowly, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray before answering. "Well… Ensign? Lieutenant? Sorry, didn't get your name." Not anyone he's met before, certainly. He'd remember a bald chick. "Anyway, suit maintenance is left to the deck crew. Let your crew chief know you're having a problem with the suit, he'll fix it up right an' proper for ya."

Tisiphone reacts rather comically to Laskaris's query of rank — one could almost imagine a fluffy white thought-bubble appearing above her head with the caption, "Lieutenant?! Someone thinks I could be a lieutenant?! Oh. My. GOD." She all but puffs up, suddenly Very Proud Indeed as she introduces herself: "Sorry. Ensign Apostolos. I only came aboard two days ago." Forty-eight whole hours. She's running out of bumbling privileges fast. "The deck crew," she echoes back. "Thanks- thank you, Sir. The luck I was having, I thought I was going to get pointed from one end of the ship to the other."

Lasher restrains himself from guffawing at the expression on her face. An ensign. Should have guessed. "Lieutenant Laskaris. 'Lasher'," he introduces himself with a crooked smile. "You can stand at ease, by the way, Ensign. I'm off duty… and besides, I'd think you'd have had enough of that parade-ground bullshit by now." He nods, smile widening to a smirk at her comment. "Bureaucracy's a bitch, innit?" Another lungful of smoke is inhaled; this time, he purses his lips, blowing out a hazy smoke ring. Showoff. "Not a problem, Ensign. I remember having that feeling a time or two myself."

"I know," Tisiphone replies to the introduction. It's no sooner said than a flash of fresh embarrassment starts crawling up her scalp. "I mean- oh, frak me, I am going to frakking die of a heart attack in a week…" Feebly attempting to scrape together what dregs of dignity she hasn't managed to destroy, Tisiphone re-squares her shoulders and tries again, a little more honestly: "I check the berthing assignments every morning so I can keep up on who isn't a rook. It makes introductions smoother." There — a flash of sarcasm with the briefest flicker of a grin. Her Cunning Plan is working OH so well. "I should go find the crew chief. I want to get this fixed so-um. In case there are more training flights soon." Her arm twitches with an aborted salute, and she turns to beat a hasty retreat.

"If you're going to have a heart attack, don't do it here. My CPR's more than a little rusty," Lasher says in a deadpan, smiling wryly. He utters a little 'ah' of understanding as she explains. "That it does. And yeah, that'd likely be prudent." Another half-grin at her not-quite a salute. As Tisiphone turns to leave, Laskaris calls out one final parting shot to her hastily retreating form. "Don't forget to breathe, Ensign." Then she's gone. Lasher watches the hatch a moment longer, letting out a chuckle as he shakes his head. Ensigns.

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