PHD #389: Exchanges
Summary: Bootstrap, Bunny, and Decoy exchange info and quips, and Sawyer mysteriously delivers a mysterious envelope. EPIC pr0n is also discussed.
Date: 22 Mar 2042 AE
Related Logs: Inscribed in Flesh (the Matatau) & Red Flags (why there just might be anthrax); Marvin "Prince" Albert (not a log but integral to the EPIC pr0n)
Devlin Evandreus Sawyer Trask 
Pilot Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #389
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.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

Condition Two again finally means a lot of folks off to the Elpis and its bar now that they've got the time, and extra sleep for everyone now that CAP shifts are half as frequent. Devlin seems to've forgone the boozing tonight at least, and to've been spending his extra time in the gym instead, since he's still carrying a gym bag as he heads back in from the head, tossing laundry into the bottom of his lockers and changing into sweatpants. He sticks his head into his bunk, and then steps back down, looking around the berths absently as he rubs a towel on his hair.

For those keeping track of such things, this is the first time Trask's even attempted sleeping in his bunk since the Fleet was set to Condition Two. With Condition Three now finally set throughout the Fleet, however, the cot he's been crashing out on in the Starboard Hangar is being swapped for what passes for a bed in the military. For the first time in more than a month, he also isn't sleeping in either his flightsuit or knuckledragger couture. Standing at his open locker, the SL busies himself with drawing on a snug military-issue t-shirt to finish his pajama ensemble that also consists of a pair of dark military-issue boxer-briefs. With his vision thus obscured by fabric, the Ensign isn't noticed.

Devlin seems almost bored, though not particularly put out about it. Who would be, when boredom's been a distant, happy memory for a month? His sandals flip and flop against the floor as he wanders about, glancing at the bunks he passes, just seeing who's in and who's out from the looks of it. He greets people as he goes, Trask among them, "Evening, Bootstrap."

Compared to most others during the span of the Swarm assaults, Bootstrap actually suffered minimal wear and tear. Sure, his already long work shifts were even longer, but he adjusted with more caffeine and sheer willfulness, having always been a resilient sort. With the Fleet no longer on high alert, however, it appears that the ragged pace of the past month or so is finally starting to catch up with him now that there is less need for so much adrenaline. It'd be evident by the cast of his face when his head finally pops through the collar of his shirt. "Decoy."

Devlin has come through unscathed as well, especially in comparison to some, his wife among them. He slicks his hair back with a lazy rake of fingers and then ruffles it again with his next movement, scratching absently. He seems to ready to head on past the Harriers SL, but then takes a step back and stops, "Hey, I heard you picked up a couple tatau artists on Tauron," he says, "I can't remember who mentioned it, but was that true?"

Coughing twice in the manner of someone who likely is battling the onset of a chest cold, Trask at least has the decency to turn his head towards his locker when he does so. Then he sniffle-snorts in a thoroughly undainty manner. "Yep," he confirms after dealing with that little bit of bronchial irritation. "Matatau Amato is a Kaiwhakairo. He did my latest bout of work when Kalli was born." A true test to the masterfulness of said work is how seamlessly the additions flow into the moko the man already had. "Seems there was a conclave goin' on when the bombs dropped. Quite a few of 'em managed to survive. I'd meant to introduce you to Malani when Bubbles was hauled off, but then we hit Condition Two before I could arrange for her to swing by Sickbay." Not that he bothers to explain who this Malani is or why he had plans involving her and the Devlins.

Devlin scrubs that towel across his hair again and then drapes it over a shoulder as Trask replies, listening curiously. "Ah, cool," he replies, "Very cool." The last seems to (understandably) confuse him a bit, and brows rise and furrow a little at once: "Malani's another?" he guesses, "If you could introduce me, that'd be great. I've got another piece of the achyddiaeth I still haven't had a chance to get finished, and I've been putting off some kirituhi additions because I haven't been able to find anybody on board that's got experience with the detail," he gestures at his arm, the parts done with a modern tattoo needle as opposed to the old-fashioned tools that scarred the portions on shoulder and chest, "So if you know any of them that could, a rec would be awesome."

Evandreus is halfway out of his flightsuit before he's even in the door. Or, rather, even more than halfway, as he'd already had the top half dangling floorward on his way down the corridor. Now he's hopping over the raised lip of the hatch and scrabbling out of the grasp of the air-tight pant-legs as if they might melt onto his skin if he kept them on a moment longer. "Hey, guys!"

"Yeah," Kal again confirms. "Malani Yarrow. She's a real talent with needles, as I hear it. Training with Amato to expand her repertoire of kaiwhakairo techniques, but she's already proficient with Knossian style 'cuz that's where she's from." Which doesn't mean much to a Black Country boy, but info is info, and there's no reason to not share what he knows, especially with someone sporting Knossian style tatau. As Evandreus enters the berthing, tired brown eyes flit that direction. "Bunny boy," is the fond greeting. "You're rusty. More than a month at Condition Two an' the time it takes you to get naked has drastically increased." Another cough, this time covered with a balled fist that does not mask his annoyance.

Devlin's brows rise further, and he smiles as he nods along with Trask this time, listening and adding, "Oh, cool. Very cool," at intervals as the ECO explains. "Sweet, if she does both, that's totally perfect. If you could hook me up, I would really appreciate it. Thanks," he smiles widely and then turns to wave at Evan, "Hey, man. How's it going?" He chuckles at Trask's teasing and then glances sideways at the coughing, "You alright? I think I've got some coughdrops or something in my locker if you want."

Evandreus is trying to get rid of the legs of the flightsuit before having unfastened his boots enough to let his feet slide out of them, and as he shoves down and steps up to no avail, he wavers, legs caught in a strange net of rubber and metal, and he comes flopping down to the floor with his flightsuit around his calves for his trouble. But he bounces back with an elbow against the floor, grinning all impish like he'd totally meant to pull that. "I must be. Frak, I've had to sleep in this thing half the time," he grunts, rolling onto his back and bringing his knees up to get at his boots and free his calves.

"I can send word, sure. You can also speak with someone in the CMES since they've struck an arrangement that permits the Matataus to travel throughout the Fleet to perform tatau rites. That's probably your best bet, really." As far as the offer of coughdrops goes, Bootstrap smirks a little. "Thanks, but that's what coffee and cigarettes are for." Could be a joke, or perhaps just bullheadedness. After all, if he patently ignores the prospect that he's coming down with something, that's a bit like not being sick at all. (Well, that's his story, and he's stickin' to it.) Closing his locker, he does start to idly rub his eyes. "Have any eyedrops, though?" he asks Alex. Then, scratchy and tired as said eyes are, he does glance back Bunnywards. "If it weren't for the whole freezing to death from suit breaches, I'd suggest asking one of those strippers at Pete's to help you add velcro to the legs so you could just whip 'em right off."

"You in a rush for something, Evan?" Devlin asks curiously as the raptor pilot falls all over himself in his rush to get out of his flight suit. He fiddles absently with the string on his sweatpants and then nods at Trask, "Yeah, I can do that if you haven't got time. SL stuff and all, it's no problem." He runs a hand through wet hair again, and then lifts a brow at the question before his head bobs in a nod, "Yeah, I've got some," he replies, "The air in this place dries my eyes out like crazy. Here, let me get it." He wanders off towards his locker for a moment.

Evandreus finally kicks off his boots and the pant legs unwrinkle like plastic snakes popping out of peanut tins. A couple of flailing kicks finally leave the Bunny sprawled there in his underclothes half-atop of a pile of rubber and boot. "I'm gonna grab a shower, for, like, ten years, is what," he smiles, tucking his hands behind his head and executing something that vaguely resembles a sit-up. He pushes himself to his feet and discards his tanks and underwear onto the pile before squatting down to pick the whole mess up, bound for his locker. "You aren't sick, are you, Boots?" he frets over in the fellow's direction.

Sawyer doesn't venture in here often (save still having her name on a bunk), so when she does it's typically with purpose. There's the crisp sound of her heels on the deck to herald her approach, "Evening, folks." It gets said in general to the room as she crosses to a bunk belonging to one Kal 'Bootstrap' Trask. An envelope gets pulled out from underneath the crook of her arm and deposited on his pillow despite him being right there. She glances over at the mention of Trask possibly being sick, and of course gets an eyeful of Evan in his pre-shower glory. To cover up her rising blush, she's turning back towards the hatch, "Have a good one." Again, said to everyone at large, and out the blonde is headed.

"Thanks," is simply relayed to Devlin. Now leaning against his locker, it takes Trask a moment to realize that he forgot to put on some socks when he donned the rest of his designated sleepwear. Staring at his feet in the way someone in dire need of rest who's also is fending off the advances of what sounds like the onset of bronchitis or something equally bothersome, muddled thoughts are waded through as he considers whether or not to unlock his locker so he can nab a pair of socks to cover aforementioned feet. Thus, in that semi-addled state, he awaits the eyedrops. Evan's question eventually registers. "Nah." It's not really a lie if he refuses to admit it to even himself, after all.

Oh, but then Sawyer is sneaking past to deposit an envelope on his bunk. Blink-blink. That /did/ just happen, right? The SL doesn't seem entirely sure. "I may or may not be contracting anthrax in the immediate future, though." Which is kind of like saying, "Oh, hi, Sawyer!" Except kinda not. Dubiously, the item now on his bed is eyed.

"Think you probably slowed yourself down in the end," Devlin points out to Evan, sensibly if unhelpfully. He gets his locker open and spends a moment locating the eyedrops before heading back to hand the little bottle over to Trask, "Here you go. Oh, hey Sawyer," he flashes the reporter a friendly smile, chin lifting with the greeting. He glances at the envelope and then at Trask and then back and, for a second, the way his lips part it looks like he might ask, but instead he just says, "Have a good night then, Sawyer," giving a wave as she heads away. "Say," he says, turning back to Trask, "I hear you've got some epic porn collection or something. Has it got any of the old Pyramid Weekly swimsuit issues? Or is it just weird stuff? Somebody told me it was just all, like, feet and kids and horses and shit."

Evan's boots land with a clatter-thud on the floor of the locker, the clothes are sort of foisted off in the direction of the mesh hamper, and Evan spends a quiet moment touching the piece of folded cloth that hasn't been unfolded since Tisiphone handed it to him all those months ago. Though now with a tender, sedate little slip of a smile, before he turns around, shutting the locker door. "Soybean!" he calls, chipper, "'Sup, dude?" But she's turning away and heading out, and Evan watches her go with a concerned twist of his lips, looking back to Boots with a 'what was that all about?' query in his eyes. "Let me see," he's heading over there, now, "Your throat, not Prince's stuff."

Sawyer kisses her hand then hoists it above her shoulder in a little wave. Things to do, and all that.

People can non-verbally (and even verbally) ask Trask what the deal with Sawyer and the envelope is. The fact remains that he has no clue. Any curiosity he may have about the contents — and it's no small amount, for the record — gets shoved aside since there are witnesses about. Heavens forfend that word reach the investigative journalist that he showed even a hint that he gave a frak about her or anything she did — although, also for the record, he does.

So, with the blonde and her deposited bundle even more blatantly disregarded than whatever bug his body is fighting off, Bootstrap easily eases into answering Alex's questions in exchange for some eyedrops. "Young Brides of Sagittaron I through XXXVII," that being volumes 1 through 37, "were airlocked upon discovery." That actually is not a joke, although it is understandable if taken as such. "There's some animal stuff — horses, donkeys, butter dogs — but I save that for special occasions." /That/ is wryly smirked, suggesting it's a joke. Granted, the joke bit is that 'special occasions' means when he wants to torment others by subjecting them to such squick. "Prince was quite the collector. You'd be amazed and deeply disturbed by some of the fetishes out there. To answer your question about swimsuits, though, not really. Closest that comes to that are some cheesecake style pin-ups from decades ago. Honestly, though? The collection is so frakkin' huge, I can only speak of the portion I've gone through. Which, by the by, is relatively small compared to the whole."

When Evan advances, the ECO adopts evasive maneuvers and simply smirks, "Where's my lollipop?" No lollipop, no looksee.

Devlin snorts in a laugh, and then blinks at Trask and laughs again, "Shit, you weren't kidding. Wow." His head tilts as the list goes on, and after a second, he asks, "Do I want to know what a butter dog is? And yeah, I mean… there is some crazy shit out there. I've been sent plenty of disgusting 'net videos, I promise. And gotcha. I figured it was probably too softcore to be in the stuff you've got, but figured I'd check," he shrugs, "There was one I was hoping to track down. Oh well." He glances back at Evan and asks, "I'd take a lollipop too, if you track any down." Beam. Then back to Trask, "Now I'm just kinda curious," he says, "Could I take a look through sometime?"

"Everyone's got stuff they're into," Evan points out pragmatically enough. "The Lady is known by many names," he re-iterates in a more typically Leontinian fashion. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. As long as it's all consensual and mutually enjoyable, yanno?" Evan looks to Abs with a knowing sort of smile as he asks to go through the stuff. But it's not enough to get him off of Boots' case. "I left it in my other pants," he remarks lightly. "Open up, c'mon."

"Some of it is actually surprisingly artistic. Erotic isn't necessarily vulgar. Most of it, though," in Prince's collection, "at least the stuff I've encountered… well, it makes what most would consider hardcore porn look like softcore." Drops now in, Bootstrap blinks a few times and adds about butter dogs, "Most people regret that knowledge." To the rest, "Yeah. I don't mind. Stuff ranges from laminated images, to digital images, to audio and video files, to smut novellas and videos, some in print and disk, but mainly digital, to… well, let's just say some items were airlocked for health and sanitation reasons." Just what, he does not elaborate. Something in his expression suggests people really do not want to know just what those items were and that he did the Fleet a great service in disposing of said items. "Yeah, though. Stuff's locked-up in storage. I'll let you know when I have some free time. Usually, I get requests for certain stuff, check the index," because Marvin Albert was a very thorough and well-organized pervert, "and collect what's to be bartered."

Back to Bunny, Trask still does not comply. Not unless quipping, "Your penis is not an acceptable substitute for either lollipop or tongue depressor," qualifies as complying. Odds are that it doesn't, because the Taurian is trundling off to his bunk to get some much needed sleep once he finally returns the bottle of drops to Devlin.

"Totally," Devlin agrees with Evandreus and then with Trask, "I mean, there's porn of basically everything ever, so some of it's going to be really artsy and kind of impressive and some's going to be… stuff you will wish you could scrub out of your brain forever." He shrugs, and then listens to Trask describe the collection and nods, "Yeah, that was sort of what I figured, from the rumors, anyways. There's seriously an index?" He laughs in surprise and then nods, "I can just flip through that, instead. Thanks, man." To the last, he snorts and agrees, "Yeah, definitely doesn't count. When I said lollipop I meant an actual one, made of candy. Best if it's orange-flavored."

Evandreus puts his hands on his hips and clears his throat, driving any such mental images out of his mind. "Drink some water," he fusses maternally at Boots, "And if it's not better tomorrow, you should really let someone look at it, okay? And don't worry. I wouldn't want to stick my thing down there before I saw the results of some cultures." Because the last thing anyone needs is a case of strep cock. "Orange and blue. I'll have to start keeping a list. But just 'cause I volunteer in the s'bay doesn't mean I have free run of the lolly supply."

"There is." An index, that is. "I'll see about getting you a copy." Up the three rungs of the ladder and into his bunk. The unoccupied one beneath his still bears the piece of tape that reads 'Jugs'. "You two can sort it out," Trask says about lollipops, moving Sawyer's folder out of his butt's way, "All I know is that I get dibs on the blue ones. And, love you as I do, Buns, I wouldn't want you to stick your thing down there ever." Because that would be like incest and he is among the majority of people who finds that gross. That said, the curtain is drawn, and it's lights-out, literally and metaphorically, for the SL.

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