| Foregoing Plan A |
| Summary: | Sawyer and Trask discuss the shared vision that may be linked to the mad ramblings of the imprisoned Five… and what to do about it. |
| Date: | 03 Dec 2041 AE (backscened on 05 Dec 2010 CE) |
| Related Logs: | The Bull and the Sparrow (the shared Vision) & Do You Know God? (the mad ramblings of the imprisoned Five); Lack of Spin and Life Goes On are referenced |
| Players: |
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| News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #280 |
| This room isn't huge by any means, but it does have all the updated equipment and a small news staff that runs the area. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Sawyer's been… absent in any sort of official News Room capacity for a few days now, though there have been sightings of her skulking around Command or stealthing out in the Library. When she managed to slip that note under Trask's pillow is anyone's guess, but there is a large amount of subterfuge surrounding it, like the instructions to meet her late in the evening after everyone else in the News Room has kicked off work for the day. She's there now, oddly enough sitting behind her desk in her full marine regalia sans helmet. Said helmet might as well have 'PRESS' permanently emblazoned on the side, for it seems like the gear never will be turned back in.
Clocking in maybe 5 hours of rack time, it's not as though the letter is immediately found. And since he tends to pull 16-hour work days, when he's free isn't necessarily when the News Room is empty. So by the time Trask finally arrives, it would be understandable to have concluded that he'd be a no-show. Dressed in his duty greens, firearm not yet put in its lockbox, the manner in which the outer shirt is unbuttoned to reveal the tank top underneath is indicative that he likely just finished his most recent shift. "This brings back memories," he remarks with a certain humor, closing the hatch behind him.
Sawyer rocks back in her chair with pressure applied to the balls of her booted feet. High heels don't really go with ensemble. Her eyes lift to Trask and against all odds a small smirk appears at the corner of her lips. "Of what? Leonis, Sagittaron, Aerilon…" Yes, Sawyer's been down on missions on all of those planets and now it seems she must have every intention of going down to Tauron. Either that, or she's found a new practical sort of fashion sense. "I'd call you a workaholic, but I sleep in my office. Glad you found a minute to spare." Her eyes flicker down his form, resting on the sidearm for a moment. "Lock it."
The Picon Five-seveN isn't the only accessory warranting notice. Slung over one shoulder is a rucksack, evident when the man turns to spin the wheel of the hatch shut, followed by setting the lock. "Of that time in my Raptor." Just after Lieutenant Penelope Paris died. "I'm gonna presume," Kal continues, turning back around to start advancing toward the desk, "that all this clandestine effort isn't just to lure me here under false pretenses for a frak." Something he had once assured the reporter when she had asked why all the secrecy on Sagittaron.
Sawyer snorts, looking away as he implies the time he was referring to, using that moment of broken eye contact to reach for her cigarette where it rests in the crook of an ashtray. "Should such a time ever arise, I assure you there won't be any false pretenses about it." The filter gets touched to her lips, and she takes a drag as if she suddenly needs some sort of stall tactic. Maybe the man threw her off-kilter, but that tends to happen with Kal. "I wanted to talk to you about a dream I had, or more specifically, this 'vision' stuff that is circulating." She gives a little nod to his rucksack. "Moving in?"
"In that case, you can offer me a smoke with the assurance that it won't be interpreted as part of some elaborate courtship ritual," is the cheeky reply, an impish gleam in his eyes momentarily dispelling the surrounding weariness. Even beasts of burden get tired, after all. Ever cutting to the chase, Trask outright asks, "They one an' the same?" Unslinging the rucksack, he sets it down atop the desk. "This would be a pretty swanky bachelor pad… yanno, if you moved out." Which isn't happening, so the answer is probably 'no'. All the same, he starts to unlatch and open the flap.
Sawyer scratches the side of her nose with her thumbnail, and because she still holds her cigarette with that hand, a finger is extended which may or may not be interpreted as her flipping Kal the bird. "What makes you think it isn't already?" A swanky bachelor pad, that is. The reporter reaches for her pack of smokes, shaking out another one which she props between her lips and uses the glowing cherry of her own smoke to light his for him. Maybe it /is/ some type of courtship ritual, but his hands are busy. "Yeah. They're one in the same. There were four of us in the vision. So far, I've been able to confirm that two others had the same dream at the same time. The fourth is Sofia, whom I can't seem to track down. Also, Daniel corroborated that the Five model we had in custody had some sort of freak out at the exact moment our dream seemed to occur. Creeped out yet?" She asks, holding out his already lit cigarette, while half of her attention and most of her curiosity is on that bag.
What makes him think that it isn't? "Okay, even if your tits should prove to be fake, I'm still pretty sure the lack of a penis due to having a vagina makes you a woman." Ergo, it would be a bachelorette pad. Pleased with his own cleverness, he smiles. Hey, she asked. With utter aplomb, he claims the cigarette with a cheeky, "Thaaaaaaank you." Mmm. Nicotine. Oh, delicious tobacco from Aerilon. Since it comes from someone else's stash, it tastes even better. "Who's Sofia?" Trask asks after exhaling some smoke. While he's at it, "Hells, who's Daniel?" Last names help when discussing people he has only briefly met and, up until now, were not indicated as Persons of Interest in the universe of Sawyer Averies. Whatever is in the bag remains in the bag, for the nonce.
Sawyer waves a hand as if dismissing the concept of gender in relation to her pad, dissipating the smoke that's starting to cling around them in a little cloud of happy drug proliferation. "Sofia Wolfe from Engineering and Daniel Kincaid, my inside man with the MP's. You really need to keep up." As if faulting him for not following both her train of thought and her 'social' rolodex. "So, the vision leads me to two things. One, what do you know of a town called Knossos. And two, should a mission arise and Cidra - Major Hahn for those playing at home - asks for volunteers, I'd like you to go. I hear you like suicide missions, and I damn well plan to be on that boat when it goes down."
Clarification given, perhaps those names are mentally filed. By outward appearances, only a barely perceptible nod of his suggests the information has registered. "Knossos?" Kal considers, nursing that cigarette betwixt his lips, only to blow some smoke through his nostrils. "Claims be the oldest settlement on Tauron." Whether or not it actually is, he neither knows nor cares. "The foremost historical museum about all things Tauron is there. I read somewhere that it supposedly has some artifacts from Kobol." Color him skeptical and overall indifferent about that. "Academics and religious types, as I hear it. A hub for that kind of thing." It's not as if a Black Country boy really would know all that much about such. Trask has a degree engineering, not history.
As far as suicide missions go, "And yet I'm still here." Alive and kickin'. An overly winsome smile is flashed, his nose scrunching up in a rascally way.
"Artifacts from Kobol," Sawyer repeats as if that's confirming some sort of suspicion she may have had, or she's cross-checking her facts as reporters are wont to do. "Well, I need to get down there, and I'd rather someone you trust be at the helm and someone I trust be the one at the ECO board. And seeming how you're a stickler for protocol, I have to go through the Command channels to try and convince them it was their idea to go down there instead of just going with my gut instinct." Her eyes narrow at that smile, like a canary that doesn't trust the cat. "Which was to 'borrow' a bird." Or, you know, temporarily steal.
"One would think that something called gut instinct would be more concerned with keeping one's innards inside their body." Which is his way of saying that even if she somehow managed to 'borrow' a bird, she'd crash it just attempting to fly it out the hangar. "If this is somehow tied into the ramblings of that Five," which it is, "Command'll probably send a team." That said, the cigarette goes back in his mouth, and the drawstring of the rucksack is pulled open. Reaching inside, Bootstrap withdraws a leather, designer handbag large enough to accommodate most manner of implements a shipboard reporter might need. It's an attractive item, to be sure, with a retail price of 2,000 or so cubits. "Your stuff's inside," he adds.
That stuff being an assortment of silk stockings edged in lace. Why, there's even a lacy black garter belt to keep them in place. Perhaps he had one of the women in his squadron go 'shopping' for him.
"I would have borrowed a pilot too," Sawyer says wryly, which opens up a whole other can of logistical worms, like getting flight clearances, etc. Logistics that Sawyer doesn't seem too concerned with, now that's she's gone the route of the more sensible Plan B.
Of course, the last thing she was expecting during the course of this conversation was the bestowing of gifts. She reaches out for the purse, fingers tracing over the fine hand stitching and designer label. "This is like my birthday. Only with less chaos, screaming, and death." Her birthday, afterall, falls two days after the Holocaust. There's a smile, an honest to goodness one even. "And here I didn't get you anything for our anniversary." The catch is opened and she peers inside.
Upon her inspection of the contents, one brow quirks with an amused expression and she fingers out a bit of the lace. "False pretenses?"
Borrowed a pilot too, eh? "That's actually called kidnapping, which is something frowned upon by The Law," the SL sagaciously points out, as though this were some manner of Public Service Announcement. "You might wanna hire a new party planner," is then quipped about birthday carnage. As far as Sawyer's lack of having an 'anniversary' gift for him, Trask impishly smiles, "Not too late to get on your knees." A stellar blowjob is always appreciated by a man, after all. Talk of false pretenses, however, gifts Sawyer with a smirk. "I said I'd get you some new stockings, so I got you some new stockings. They don't carry nylons in those frou-frou shops. I think they might be illegal." Nylon stockings in Wreath-of-Roses, that is.
Sawyer tests the elastic of the garter by hooking her thumbs in it and stretching, "Speaking of illegal. And being on my knees." She gives a light laugh and tucks the silk garments back in the designer purse and closes the latch reverently. Again, her hands smooth over the expensive material. "Well, you have good taste, Bootstrap. I'll give you that. But as for return gifts, I'm a traditionalist. Like a fountain pen… or tie." There's a quick hug of the accoutrement to her chest, and then she's reaching to put it into one of her drawers. One that locks. "You say kidnapping, I say artful coercion. So, do you think I'm insane?"
"I'd prefer power tools." That's a traditional man gift. "I've not yet decided if arguing semantics with the JAG is insane or idiotic. Granted, they needn't be mutually exclusive." That probably isn't what she's referring to. The man likely knows that.
Sawyer props her head in her hand and her elbow onto the top of her desk. Fingers massage at her blonde locks, easing away a day's worth of tension. Regarding him through a haze of smoke, she takes another drag of her cigarette. "You're the only man I know who needs an eighteen volt battery for their nose hair trimmer." Thus turning it, of course, into a power tool. "What do you mean, arguing with the JAG?" Off topic, but she follows the flow of conversation anyways, like she's pumping Trask as a source.
Not missing a beat, Trask retorts, "You should see what I use for manscaping. It requires an electrical cord." Puff-puff. The question is answered with a question, "Aren't investigative journalists supposed to be able to follow threads of a conversation?" Jerkass.
"And aren't bright men supposed to know to quit while they're ahead?" Oh. You can almost see the lightbulb come on above Sawyer's head, "You mean the kidnapping… yeah. Sorry, I'm a little bit distracted with the clawing paranoia that I somehow am being influenced by a Cylon." Her boot lifts from the floor to punt him in the shin, albeit somewhat playfully. "You don't believe me."
"Yeah," is cheekily smiled, "but bright men with impudent tendencies tend to not give a frak about going too far." Brown eyes flit to his shin when it's lightly kicked. "Real mature, Averies," he derides… before moving to flick her earlobe none too gently. "And how the hells did we get on the subject of Cylon mind-control mojo? This about that dream," beat, "sorry — vision you had and that Five's freak-out?"
Sawyer moves her gaze to the hatch, and despite the tomfoolery, her tone is solemn. "There are several schools of thought," she starts, ruefully rubbing her earlobe. "One being the visions are some sort of portent of our future. Another that the Cylon model was the one that somehow… projected that dream into our heads in order to lead us into a trap. And yet another that implies we're Cylon agents ourselves." Beat. "That /hurt/." Of course it's far too delayed to be real truth, but nonetheless, she reaches out to pinch his arm.
This time, Trask sees the incoming attack and swats at the encroaching hand. No Touchy! "Stop flirting," he chides. "Could've been a potent chamalla trip," is offered, likely not in earnest. This metaphysical and mystical mumbo-jumbo really isn't his shtick. Even so, he's no dummy. "You speak with the Sister?" That being Karthasi, most likely.
Sawyer leans back as her hand is smacked, popping an offended knuckle in her mouth to suckle away the imagined sting to hide the smirk on her lips. "Far as I know, the effects of those drugs aren't so long lasting. And no." She shakes out her hand, "Part of me is afraid of what she might say. The other part of me pretends I can't track her down. Like Wolfe." Which is two parts of avoidance. It's a confession of sorts, and she swivels in her desk chair under the pretense of finding another cigarette as she stamps the first one out. "At this point, I'd rather go down and see for myself."
"Well, if you're being mentally influenced by a Cylon, you at least still act like Sawyer Averies." A comment about her adamant curiosity, perhaps. Wryly, Bootstrap smirks. And since he really has nothing more to offer on the subject, he concludes with, "Command signs off on it, I'll see to it that my ass is the one in the ECO seat. If they don't? Ask Cid." Gemenese CAG just might give clearance for such an excursion.
"You'll come?" A weight seems to lift off of Sawyer's shoulders, finding some modicum of comfort that she can count on him. In that case, she shakes him out another cigarette as well and offers it over. "In that case, I just may look into that power tool for you. Maybe something with a pull-start."
Another quality cigarette? Trask won't decline. Still working on the one in his mouth, he unfastens the right breast pocket of his duty shirt and reaches inside to retrieve a pack of cigarettes containing three (3) cancer sticks. Into said box goes the latest acquisition, and then back into the pocket, which he snaps shut. "Already have one," he notes about a 'power tool'. One with a pull-start, in a manner of speaking. "No complaints about how it performs, either."
It's really a desperate attempt not to smirk, a battle she's willing to lose for once, but Sawyer hitches her head towards the hatch. "You better get out of here before I trick you into another night of snuggling by playing the poor pitiful female card."
"Seein' how I've already met my monthly quota for being drooled and snotted on by someone other than myself, yeah. I'm gonna jet." Grabbing the rucksack, Trask slips it over one shoulder. "And you, young lady, lay off those hallucinogens and psychotropic drugs, lest you have further wacky dreamtime hijinks." A look is leveled that is so serious that it cannot be serious. And with that, he's off.