PHD #093: Evergreen
Summary: A quiet moment in the observation lounge.
Date: 31 May 2041 AE
Related Logs: None
Villon Petroski 
Observation Deck — Deck 3 — Battlestar Cerberus
With a quiet view to the stars, this tends to be one of the more popular 'quiet areas' of the Cerberus. Up front is a small-unseated area for ceremonies or other activities while the seating rises up behind it. Each level rises up behind the one before it, comfortable chairs and couches set up for crewmembers to relax, get some work done or even take a nap. A large armored plate is lowered during Condition One to protect the interior against a breach in the glass.
Post-Holocaust Day: #93

In light of the recent excitement, it seems only reasonable that the men and women of Battlestar Cerberus would gather here to catch a break between frantic Cylon attacks. The observation lounge is therefore quite crowded indeed, with most of the couches filled by crewmembers in various stages of contemplation, and a haze of cigarette smoke lingers like fog over the remarkably quiet room. In one such couch — just steps away from the hatch at the top of the stairs — is young Emilie Villon, dressed in the flight suit that identifies her as a pilot. She's currently fiddling with a pair of earbuds, their crossed wires tangled into a veritable bird's nest of purple. A helmet rests beside her on the arm of the couch, its olive shell reflecting the image of the hard-sealed boots drawn up beneath her body.

It's been an odd day for Daniel, one that found him at the barber where he got his head shorn save for perhaps a scant half inch on top, the new 'do' in anticipation for his future enlistment. 'Might as well do it now and give yourself time to get used to it,' he rationalized and it's a good thing he did so as he has been thrown for a total loop. Discombobulated and out of sorts, now, Danny has come here to sulk, bottle of Ambrosia and a pack of fumarella in tow, this his venue of choice for this round of vice-partaking. Looking for a place to sit, he pauses by where the lady is, not having noticed her yet.

As luck would have it, space opens up right by the young pilot — for even as her delicate fingers become locked in this devilish cat's cradle, the brooding deckhand beside her ashes his smoke in a nearby tray provided right for that purpose. Dark brown eyes glance up at him as he stalks off but Villon says nothing, lips pursed as she returns her attention to the frustrating puzzle in her hand. Her turquoise-and-leather bracelet shimmers dully beneath the room's dim lighting, its crimson ribbon flashing as her wrist dips and bobs in that mess of hot purple wiring.

Petroski blinks once as he sees Emilie, one of the mass of new faces that he has been noticing a lot, lately. She's watched for a bit before he joins her, the bottle and pack of smokes set aside as he gets comfortable, not bothering to think to ask her if she minds. "I usually just say frak it when something gets that tangled and go out and buy another pair but seeing as how that's not an option…" Daniel pauses as he sits up slightly, doing so to get his lighter out of his pants pocket (right front for those who keep track of such details), only to then conclude with an offer to help. "…may I take a look?"

Even if she minded, she doesn't seem the type to make too much of a fuss about it, cheeks coloring as she realizes that the man is in fact speaking to her and not to some other person confounded by a pair of intractable headphones. "S — so — sorry," Villon stammers, though she does hand over the entire assembly — music player and all — without any reluctance. "Don't mean to — to bother." A faint Virgan accent is evident in her words, spoken in a lilting and fragile soprano.

The thought of hair, booze and all that is temporarily put aside as he begins to look the knot of wires over, Dan's brow raising at first only to lower deeply, the last being when he sees just how bad off Villon's headset is. "Goodness, girl. Why are you apologizing," he questions lightly while starting the task of getting kinks and knots out, his long fingers rather nimble. "I'm Daniel," he says while beginning, polite to the very end, his mouth quirked in a minute grin. "And you are…?"

"Snag." Reflex — but then, perhaps realizing that the fellow in the suit might not actually be military, she elaborates. Slender fingers lace together on her lap as wide, intense eyes regard the stars winking like diamonds in the wild black yonder. "It's my callsign wh — when I'm flying." The man receives a shy little smile. "You — you know. In space. Be — because I'm a pilot." Not that she's bragging. "But I'm Emilie."

"Ah. A pilot. I had you peg for a Marine. Am glad you set me straight." Petroski's gaze is shot to the side as is the ever-widening smile, his dour mood lifting a bit. "It's nice to meet you, Emilie." The conversation does nothing to hinder his work and it looks like he's beginning to make some progress, the wire a bit less tangled than it was a moment ago. "So. Snag, hmmm? I'm sure there has to be an interesting tale behind that callsign. Care to share it with me?" He angles his head towards the bottle, offering her a drink if she wishes to have a swig or two.

The man's manner seems to set Snag at ease, judging from the way she relaxes into her couch's plush embrace. "I can't be a Marine," she reasons, her accent growing noticeably stronger as she brushes dark curls from her eyes. "Marines don't use helmets like these, silly." Small knuckles rap knowingly on the thing's hardened shell, three taps interrupted by a quiet — almost reluctant — giggle. Clearly his sarcasm has escaped her. "And — um, I — I could, but then I — I'd have to kill you." Another self-conscious smile. "Un — unless you fix my earphones." No drinks for her, not yet.

Daniel returns to looking at what he's trying to accomplish but the actual work pauses for a second as he reaches up with his left hand to run the palm over the back of his head where it had been shorn especially short. "At least you wouldn't have to have this hairstyle inflicted upon you." Another joke, it like the others told to break the ice. "And, seeing as how I'd rather not be offed…as tempting as it is if it'd be at the hands of someone as comely as yourself…I best get this done, now shouldn't I?" About half way done, he stops fussing with where his hair was and returns to business. "Where are you from, Miss Snag?"

ALARM. MAN BEARING FOUR-FOUR-TWO CAROM OH-TWO-NINER EXECUTING CHARM MANEUVER. It's a pity Emilie's sufficiently inexperienced that she doesn't quite know how to evade, which is why that ever-present stammer returns with a vengeance as she quickly looks away. "Virgon," she murmurs. "Fr — from Meridien." A tiny fishing village along the Actae that's blossomed into one of the planet's biggest tourist attractions, frozen in time by popular demand. "Pa — pa — papa ran a boat." Dark eyes dart over to measure progress on her headphones despite her resolve not to so much as glance in his direction.

A few more minutes and then…there it is. One absolutely knot-free headset. It is held up for Emilie's inspection while he speaks, his eyes brightening when he takes in her answer. "I am from there myself. Well, not from Virgon originally. And not from the village. I was the aide to Winnie. She was one of the QUORUM deligates." With the ability to reach for the bottle now, he does just that, the item he had been fussing with held out to be taken from his possession while the other is soon wrapping around the glass neck, the Ambrosia brought closer. "I am from Leonis originally and then from Caprica. Moved around quite a bit in my relatively young life, it seems."

"Cooool." Whether that's in response to Petroski name-dropping her Quorum delegate or Petroski fixing up that tangled headset is unclear; she, at least, isn't volunteering anything except a painfully awkward "Th — thanks" before plugging in one of the recently-liberated earbuds and navigating to a particular playlist. "This — is my first time," she mumbles in the meantime. "Um. Off-world," is the hasty clarification.

"Well, it was cool. Now it's just a fancy title with not much meaning, anymore. That's why I'm signing up once I can get with the proper people. Will make an excellent target, I'm sure." The bottle's opened and the cloyingly sweet scent of the green liquor wafts from it. "Would you like a sip," he asks while angling it towards her, the role of devil-on-the-shoulder being taken on. "Or are you having to fly?" The flightsuit and the helmet is looked at as he asks as well as Emilie as a whole although the lady herself is eyed a bit less obviously, or so he hopes.

Emilie wrinkles her nose as the overpowering smell of ambrosia wafts over to where she's sitting, shaking her head a few more times to make her intention clear. Dark hair rustles against the hard fabric of her flight suit, a few strands resisting as they drag against pale skin. "I'm flying again," she says, almost apologetically — as good an excuse as any, that. "Captain Aron, he — he cleared me yesterday, th — though the doctors said I — I wasn't quite — " Her voice, fading all the while in an elegant diminuendo, now says "Ready" in little more than a whisper. "Half an hour 'til — 'til launch."

"Why, my dear, I love how sexual you make that sound," Daniel croons sweetly, the lecher peeking his head up for as long as it takes for that to leave his mouth. The fact that Villon is acting so genuinely shy gets him to immediately regret that, however, and he is blushing, unable to keep the heat off of his cheeks. "Well..yes." Clearing his throat, he lifts the bottle and takes a deep drink, that then followed by the lighting of a cigaretta…ah, sweet fumarella, how he loves you.

"Um." Emilie's hand loses its grip on her music player, its hot purple case falling to her lap before bouncing down onto the deck. Pale cheeks burn with heat as blood rushes to her face, splotches of brilliant pink appearing faster than it takes her to finish that short, quick syllable. "Th — th — thanks," she manages, dark eyes not daring to leave the spot where her player has fallen. Gingerly, the girl unfurls, boots hitting ground before — with a slightly panicked look in Petroski's direction — she bends to pick it up, taking the chance that he's too distracted by that cigarette to ravish her while her attention's diverted.

Petroski is really a gentleman despite the jokes and such so there is no ravishing to be had although a swift glance is made at Emilie's posterior while she's distracted by picking up the device. "You owe me a story," he reminds her. "But you did say you had to fly soon so perhaps it's one that you can tell me later?"

It's not like there's terribly much to see, and besides, flight suits are notoriously unflattering. And so it is that this happy sartorial decision renders Emilie immune from Man's lascivious gaze while she reaches for the player on the ground. As for the story? "It's — it's actually pretty boring," she manages when she's back in her seat again, fingers brushing off a few specks of dust from the thing's purple cover. "I — I caught my trainer on a flagpole after overshooting my landing," she admits. "The — the landing skid — you know, the little — " Words fail her as her flat palm extends in the closest approximation of a skid she can muster. "My Viper was okay, but — " She winces at the memory. "I, uh. It's in my record. F — first crash ever caused by four feet by six feet flag."

The story gets Petroski to chuckle a bit, it being one that unfolds visually as Villon tells it. "That had to be horribly embarrassing. Now I know why you didn't want to tell me." Tsking slightly, he watches her intently for a while, taking in how she reacts to having related the origin of her callsign. "So that is what you'll be known as for the rest of your days, Emilie?" A drag off of the smoke has a cloud of grayish-blue smoke forming about his head when it's released, the haze slow to float up towards the ceiling.

The girl smiles wanly, lost in her memories. "Unless I do something stupider," she observes — an oblique answer, but an answer nonetheless. "It was nice, though," Emilie continues, carried along that bubbling stream of thought. "My FI announced it at dinner and everybody laughed and I laughed too and then we had roast beef with peas because it was a Friday, but the horseradish was a little strong so I couldn't finish." Dark eyes flutter closed as she smiles, heedless of the man next to her. "That was fun," she murmurs, those cute dimples looking almost — sad. "Just — just us. I wonder where they are."

"Hmm. Yeah, that does sound nicie." Dan reaches over to pat Emilie softly on her nearest arm, the gesture a bit strained in that he has no idea what more he can do besides that without scaring the poor girl witless. "Don't think about that, dear. It'll drag you down and your friends wouldn't want you to be sad, now would they? Just remember the good times." His cigarette finished, Daniel puts it out, leaning forward to do so, and then, with a sigh, he puts forearms to knees, allowing himself to sit like that.

"I do," murmurs Emilie, frozen like a deer in the headlights when the man (!) puts his hand on hers. "Re — remember. I can't not." Eyelids twitch as she tilts her head to the side, resting it in the comfort of the couch's puffed pillows. "Everything." And when she says that word her eyes flash open, earnest gaze fixing on Petroski's face, dark eyes boring into and through his face before — with a hapless, helpless shrug she's picking herself up off the couch, ducking through a haze of smoke, helmet in hand. "Thanks," she whispers, smiling shyly — and then, attention drifting one last time to the stars that bob like glow-worms in the great black sea of space, she tiptoes out.

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