| From the Ashes of What Was |
| Summary: | Several pilots attempt to regroup and collect themselves in berthings following the events of the botched salvage operation, while Sawyer attempts to get caught up on some work. All three find out it isn't quite that easy. |
| Date: | March 15, 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | takes place immediately after Freakouts and Philosophy, references the events of Tug Of War. |
| Players: |
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| Viper Berthings - Deck 4 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| 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 Post Holocaust Day: #17 |
Sawyer is busy celebrating Condition Three with….work. She has it spread out on the table nearest her bunk, the reporter still firmly living in Viper squadron bunks against all odds and recommendation. She has photos spread out as well as some hand written pages of notes that she's pouring over, occasionally moving them around to suit her taste. A pencil is clenched between her teeth, the yellow surface obscured by tiny bite marks as if she's been gnawing on the thing for hours.
The news of the ban being lifted has spread quickly, something Alessandra has taken advantage of in the form of having gone in search for the nectar of the Lords. It took a while but after a bit of bartering she has been successful. It's not Ambrosia she has found but rather a bottle of homemade 'hooch', some of Aerilon's finest moonshine to be found. Striding over to her bunk, she pauses for a moment to gawk at the sight of the reporter but that surprise is eventually shrugged off and she returns to what she was going to do, that being getting changed into something more comfortable.
Lasher enters the berthings, having just been released from sickbay. There's a book and a couple other little knick-knacks tucked under his arm, souvenirs from his stay in the recovery ward. He gives Sawyer a look, followed by a longer one at Alessandra. He says nothing, though, his brows knotted and his lips shut tight as he makes his way to his rack. His things are tossed down on the bed, and he slowly removes his blues jacket with a grimace. Evidently he's heard about the partial lifting of the ban as well(or hell, maybe he hasn't), as his next action is to grab a flask from his locker and drain the thing in one long gulp.
Traffic has Sawyer lifting her eyes from the papers, flicking her gaze to Alessandra and then Lasher as they come in and summarily starting to tie one on. She plucks the pencil from her lips and tosses it on table to roll across a black and white photo of Sitka. "Evening." She greets them both collectively as she leans back in the chair, her high heeled feet spread wide to keep her balanced. People drinking in berthings, she can't help but let a small smile creep to her lips like it's some sort of personal victory.
Alessandra sighs and looks at Lasher, forgetting they're not alone as Sawyer's greeting is a bit slow to register with her right now. "Might as well get it off of your chest," she comments dryly, "Otherwise it'll just fester. I deserve it…" Clearing her throat, she opens the jar and makes the mistake of leaning over to smell the booze, the fumes of which get her to sputter. Must be real quality stuff. "Guess you'll be finding a new lead for Money Shot." Now it sinks in that someone said something and she turns, smiling thinly at the lady reporter. "Hello." Her own short return greeting is punctuated by a large gulp of the moonshine followed by a fairly sharp cough. Gods.
"Ms. Averies," Laskaris tersely returns Sawyer's greeting. He looks briefly from the reporter to the paperwork she's got in front of her. His eyes don't linger there for long, though, as Alessandra addresses him. The younger woman gets a stark glare, and there's a long moment of silence. "You're godsdamn right you do. What the bloody frak were you thinking? Were you thinking?" The man's already heavy Aerilon accent gets so thick it could be cut with the proverbial knife. The man looks as though he's about to tip over the edge into a full blown rant, but it subsides just as quickly with another glance over at Sawyer. He settles, instead, for a cool, growling, "There'll be a debriefing — once more of our people are in shape to attend. You'll hear what you need t' hear, believe you frakkin' me."
"Oh, don't mind me," Sawyer prattles on in the midsts of all the tension. "I have my own work to do. I just ask that if there's going to be blood shed, you don't spatter the pages." Undoubtedly feeling like the sore thumb in this situation, she just goes back to her work, picking up pencil again to start editing what she's undoubtedly edited a dozen times already.
Alessandra holds out the glass container to Lasher, it trembling slightly as her hand takes to shaking. "I don't know," she eventually comments after giving it a bit of thought. "I can tell you it wasn't because I was trying to frakking impress you like Tisiphone thinks, but otherwise? I really don't know." Pursing her lips, she turns to look towards the paperwork and its owner, Sawyer's statement getting her to chuckle some. "I doubt it'll get to that point. Don't worry, miss." Darting her attention back to Anton, she watches him, her eyes holding to his own first and then his chin, the amusement the reporter brought into being ebbing, her gaze slipping down several inches. Yeah, she's looking at his chin, now. "Think you and I will be able to have a civil conversation once the briefing and ass chewing is done and over with? I am asking because I have some…stuff I'd like to discuss with you." A pause and then, "And I am sorry, Lasher. Truly."
"Impress me? What the frak does impressing me have to do with any godsdamned thing?" He hadn't caught all of Tisiphone's outburst, just enough to know that she's… Not Very Happy with Allie right now. Not that Tis is alone. "You'd have impressed me more if you'd stayed with your frakking wingman and followed the motherfrakking return t' base order. For gods' frakking sake, woman, if I didn't know better, I'd've thought you were trying t' get my whole bloody squadron killed!" For the moment, Sawyer's presence is forgotten as Laskaris' ire is focused on Alessandra. Her offer of the jar, despite its tantalizing fumes, is not accepted. He stares at her a few moments longer, his eyes and mouth drawn to narrow slits. "Don't apologize t' me. Apologize to that broken woman you left behind down in Sickbay. As soon as she can stand t' be in the same room as you, anyways." Another brief pause. His expression relaxes slightly, but not completely. Lasher does, however, manage a terse nod in response to her last question.
Make no mistake about it, Sawyer is unabashedly listening to the conversation. At least all the scribbling she's doing over there isn't her taking notes, right? "You know, if this conversation didn't have serious implications, I'd suggest the two of you just kiss and make up." All this is said rather dryly, without so much as turning her head to look back at the pair. "I haven't gotten the injured list yet, don't suppose one of you would be obliged?" Damn reporter just isn't very good at being ignored.
Alessandra reaches up to scratch itch under her left eye, the jar still held out as she regards that. "You really don't know? Guess I'm better at hiding shit than I thought." Shrugging, she looks at the SL, trying not to bristle at him at the part about trying to kill his squadron; once she's sure she won't snap at him she adds quietly, under her breath, "I somehow doubt that she'll want to see me, Anton. Not that it isn't understandable. Probably would be easier to talk to the bulkhead but I'll try later. After she has had time to heal." And calm down but that's not going to be said. The joke from the reporter has her blushing some and she sighs, not sure what to do or say now, the subject of the list left for the LT himself to speak on.
"Fix it. Don't care how. But I'm not going t' have this be a cancer in the squadron. It's not as if I have the luxury of transferring one of you out," Lasher replies flatly. "I'd better not have t' order the two of you t' hash it out. For the time being, I'll be pairing you with Ensign Kolettis. Perhaps the two of you can teach each other the value of watching your wingman's bloody stupid arse — preferably before one or both of you gets frakking scragged." His irate gaze then falls upon Sawyer. Her first comment gets nothing more than a narrowing of the eyes. In response to the second? "You can get it from the CAG, Ms. Averies. Or hell, just stop on by sickbay. They're all still frakking there." In that moment, at least, it suddenly becomes apparent from the pained expression on his face that some of that anger of Lasher's is being cast inwards, as well as outwards.
"But then, going straight to the source? Is always so boring." Sawyer finally flicks a gaze aside to the senior pilot, then transfers it to Alessandra briefly. "The flavor is always in the peripheries. I'm well aware ripping this girl a new one is well within your job title, but maybe you should wait until you're both not drinking. I'd hate to have all my hard work, and the moment the ban was lifted, all to go to waste."
Alessandra notices the expression and it causes her to sigh, it causing Lucky to lean close and drop her voice. "If you need to get the rest of your anger out we can step outside and you can take it out on me in any way you need to." That comes just after Sawyer's statement which she either ignores for the time being or she missed it entirely. The moonshine's set aside then and she moves, sitting on the table not too far from where the papers and other work-related items are. "So what are you working on, anyhow," she quires with little regard for things like privacy.
Likewise, Lasher's voice drops to dangerous levels. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do. Right now, you don't have that frakking right." For the moment, though, the lion's share of his anger seems to be expended; the fury on his features has ebbed, replaced by an expression that's more saddened than anything else. "It's a frakking casualty list, Ms. Averies. I'm not sure what bloody flavor you expect t' find. We're damn lucky it's not an obituary column instead," he calls out to the reporter as he refills his flask from a small bottle on the shelf on his locker. He doesn't down this one right away, though, taking only a small swig.
"Like what actually happened up there, Lieutenant. But luckily for me, I don't need someone to spell it out for me. One of the benefits of my position, I'm able to absorb plenty just by simply…being." Sawyer responds fluidly to the winding down Laskaris. As Alessandra becomes interested in what she's doing, the hypocrit starts to gather up her papers. "Just what we call in the biz a 'humanity' piece. It's not ready yet. Still really rough. I was angling for a piece about callsigns and how they were earned. Not really breaking news, but right now I'm just shooting for something that's not depressing as frak."
Alessandra looks up at Laskaris and actually sticks her tongue out at him, not stopping to think that it might be a bad idea. "I wasn't telling you. It was an offer, Anton. Frak's sake. I'm trying to make things right betweeen us and I'm at a loss as how to do so. Don't be a jerk, please?" Huffing a sigh, she reaches over to try and read one of the papers Sawyer tries to gather, missing it by a few nanoseconds which causes her to frown. "So much for a sneak peek. Look, ma'am, I get that you want to help people keep their moral up but do those we've lost and who got hurt a favor and don't try to gloss over the truth for the sake of wanting to not depress your readers or whatever. Just tell the truth, huh?"
Good thing Lasher's not in the mood to wind back up. Allie's tongue is met with a throaty sigh, and he simply leans back against the rack, flask still in one hand as he lights a cigarette. The other pilot's comment about wanting to make things right gets no response. "Not depressing? Good luck with that, Ms. Averies." Lasher doesn't smile, but he does make a sound that could be charitably called a snort of amusement. "Look around you. It's not liable t' get much more depressing, is it? Write the truth, and let the gods sort it the frak out."
"I'm not capable of glossing over. And morale is for Command to keep up, not me." Sawyer continues gathering up the papers, finally flipping over one of the photos so it's face down on the stack and nothing is visible any longer. "And in case you haven't noticed, my reader base has significantly shrunk. So this piece may as well just be for me. And I have a name. For frak's sake I've bunking with you folks for damn near two months now. I'm Sawyer. My name is Sawyer. Not Miss or Ma'am. Nothing is going to explode, the Gods won't shower you with disfavor, and the commode isn't going to swallow you whole if you use it." Her own ire is now stoked, no doubt by the questioning of her work. Or lack there of.
"Las…" Allie starts but then Sawyer says her piece, her attention torn between them both until it can finally settle on the woman. "Sorry, old habits die hard. Growing up the daughter of a Fleet officer and stuff, that kind of thing gets pounded into your brain." Slippping off of her seat, Allie approaches Laskaris and just watches him, not saying anything but frakitall, she sure looks like she has a lot on her mind.
Laskaris regards Sawyer for a moment, then slowly inclines his head. "All right. Sawyer." He takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a soft sigh. He doesn't try to explain himself, though. With another long breath, he sinks down to sit on his bunk, shoulders slumped. His head raises to meet Allie's scrutiny, but for the moment he says nothing else.
Sawyer scoots her chair back, the legs scraping with a noise akin to nails on a chalkboard. "You want something that's not depressing? You still have each other. Wingmates, Squadmates, bedmates, whatever it is you two are…you still have each other. Which is a helluva lot better then being called Ms. Averies and being reminded over and over again that ultimately? You're still the stranger and now thanks to the end of the wolrd, you always will be. I can tell you that much." Lifting herself to her feet, it's just a short walk to her locker, a combination entered and the door popped open to shove her papers inside. "I'll leave you two to some privacy. The pair of you can hash this out without the audience."
"You don't have to go, Sawyer. Not if you don't have to. Doubt there's anything Lasher and I can work out right now, to be honest." That's said without looking over her shoulder, her attention kept on Anton now. "Yeah." Sighing herself now, she sits again, this time on her own bunk, it giving her enough of a vantage point to look at them both without having to stand or move somewhere else to do so. "I'm probably just going to sit here and get drunk anyhow. Makes working shit out impossible when one's intoxicated."
There's at least one thing upon which Allie and Laskaris can currently agree, then, as he takes another pull from his flask. "It's all right, Sawyer. Uh, sorry." For what, he doesn't clarify. It's momentuous enough that he apologized to begin with, isn't it? With that, the Viper lieutenant folds himself the rest of the way into his bunk, adjusting himself with a grimace as he lies down on top of the military issue covers.
"That's alright. I'm the one over here breaking rule number one of Journalism, not you." Sawyer says easily back at Lasher, before taking a minute to look in the mirror magnetized to the inside of her locker door. She makes a few quick swipes beneath her eyes to make sure her makeup is impeccable, then she snaps the locker closed and locked once more. To Alessandra, there's a shrug, "Conversation seems to have dried up anyways, right? It gets in the way of inebriation, and I hear Reporters are serious buzz kills. I'd say try and have a good evening, but that seems a rather vapid thing to say, considering. So. Just good night, then."
Alessandra nods a bit. "Yeah, good night, Sawyer. And what Lasher said. Sorry." Taking a breath, she reaches into her bunk and extracts her prized pyramid ball, one of her most cherished possesions which she then hurls towards the LT's bed. "Nice way to give me the cold shoulder. So you want me and Tis to work shit out yet you're going to give me the frakking cold shoulder? How the hell is that going to help with anything but making you look like a frakking hypocrite?" Having held that in for long than was good for her, the words flow from her like water that burst through a dam, rushing from her without any consideration. "Gods, man up and let's try to find a way to fix this between us otherwise it's going to be just as bad as if Money Shot and I don't get things repaired."
Looking up at the ceiling of his rack as he is, Lasher doesn't notice Alessandra winding up and letting fly the pyramid ball. It strikes him in the arm, and he flails in surprise. His head snaps over to look back at Alessandra, scowling. "What cold bloody shoulder? I'm still right the frak here," he retorts acidly. "If I was, you'd bloody well know, eh?" He sighs, taking another drag from his cigarette, suddenly glad he didn't drop it when the ball smacked into his arm. "Fix this? You want t' fix this? Look, it's simple, all right? Take the lesson, don't frak up like this again, and we'll be absolutely fine. But if it happens again? I'll have your bloody hide and tack it on my office wall. Easy as that." He shakes his head. "I don't have the luxury of petty stupid bullshit anymore."
There is a cough and then the sound of the curtain on Allie's bunk being drawn closed. "I have," comes the sound of her voice afterr a a grunt, and then there's the rustle of cloth to follow that up with. "Not that I've had a chance to prove it yet." Going quiet, she finishes what she was doing, that getting into her night clothes while laying on her bed. Sporting jersy and shorts, now, she goes to getting her removed clothing into a dirty clothes pile while she thinks. "Can I ask a question," she eventually asks, her voice held at a respectful tone now, her own anger and disappointment nowhere in her voice now.
Evandreus trucks in, finally showered, in fresh tanks and sweats as he winds down for the evening, hair still a little moist, but not dripping anymore. He patters in on bare feet, Gregor's hand firmly in his, the bunny bouncing against his knee as he slouches in, peeking. Nope. No booze-up in here, either. "Hey, Lasher," he calls gently, not, as yet, seeing Duckie, or aware he's wandered in on a conversation.
Lasher briefly ducks his head out of the rack, brows furrowed as a new voice addresses him. "Oh. Hey, Bunny." His voice doesn't sound particularly welcoming, but that's not anything that Evan did. A thin trail of cigarette smoke wafts out from his bunk as he leans back in. He's laying there in tank tops and the pants from his blues uniform, the top tossed over the back of a nearby chair. "Yeah, Allie," he replies to Lucky a moment later as he fumbles for a book on the shelf behind him.
The arrival and greeting from Evan has Allie going still, her face slightly pale for a few seconds. "Hey, Evan. How goes, huh?" Her eyes are narrowed in a slight wince, perhaps expecting the same reaction from him that she has gotten at least once before. There's no booze-up here but that doesn't mean there isn't any to be found, that being what she goes to fetch. "Would you like a drink? Moonshine. Not bad." Glass vessel back in hand, she takes another drink, a nice, long gulp followed by another, liquid courage downed before she addresses Lasher…once the burn-and-choke is gone. "If it was anyone else who did what I did, would you be riding them as hard as you are me or am I some kind of special case that is needing to be made example of?"
It's chilly in here, and the Bunnies both hesitate just a little ways into berthings. The voice from behind the curtain seems to clue him in as to the nature of the cold— but he, himself, if he had any plans to lay into Duckie, doesn't do so right now, when she's in talks with her SL about events. "S'awright, Duckie, thanks," he declines the drink, keeping his voice muted and shuffling along toward Shiv's bunk in silence, letting the other two go on.
Lasher snorts, giving a brief headshake as he thumbs through the pages of his weathered paperback. "Why would you be a special case? Of course not," he says distantly. "I'm an equal opportunity arse-chewer." Hey, that actually resembled humor. "You are one of the more experienced pilots I've got left, so you at least should've known better. That doesn't excuse anyone else, though, sure as frak, and believe me, no one else is going t' get off light. You just found me first." Another current of smoke emerges from the rack, and Lasher washes it down with another swig from his flask.
Alessandra nods and does a walk-by hugging of Bunny if he allows it, the hug totally forgotten about if it seems like he might not want to be touched by her. "Okay. Probably a good idea anyhow. With all the drinking I'm sure people are doing, best to have some stay sober." The path that took her past Bunny had a purpose to it as she's now standing before the bunk Anton calls his, a hand coming to rest on a hip as she considers his answer. "That's just it. Because I know better. Who best to make examples out of?" Crouching, she looks from Lasher to Bunny and then back, her mind working on putting pieces together which eventually become words that are given voice. "It won't happen again. I do promise that."
Evandreus seems more surprised than anything as he's caught up in a hug, shoulders shrugging up toward himself, but he doesn't glare daggers or otherwise give the impression that the gesture's unwelcome. He doesn't comment on it, either, though, further than a little squeak of an 'eek!' before he shuffles along on his way, peeking up into the bunk just above Shiv's.
"Hnh. That was my first inclination, believe me. Leave your — or someone's, anyway — metaphorical broken body on the metaphorical steps as a warning t' all the others not t' make the same mistake again," Lasher notes dryly. "But… after thinking about it… I'm not sure what purpose it would serve. What can I really do, besides ground you? Yank your wings? How the frak would that help the squadron? We're short enough on pilots as it is, especially pilots with any kind of experience, and I need everyone that's in shape to fly in a bleedin' cockpit. Besides, you're punishing yourself almost as badly as anything I could do to you. You're not a total idiot. You know you buggered it out there, and good. Let this be a lesson t' you and others in the future. It's one that I don't think anyone will forget anytime soon." He shakes his head between puffs of smoke. "Don't want your promises. Just show me out there, right?"
The eek from Doe has Alessandra smirking as does the mental image Laskaris invokes although the latter is quite a bit less humorous than the former. "Not? So does that mean I'm just an idiot then," she asks, picking apart Lasher's choice of words to try and lighten the mood. "I think it's time for me to grab a shower and get some sleep. Let you menfolk talk." A quick glance is made about the floor before it's stopped, whatever it was she was looking for unfound. "Thanks for letting me keep my wings, Las. Anyhow, see you later. And you too cute stuff," she grunts, the parting compliment to Evan coinciding with her getting up. Damn knees. Bath stuff is snagged and then she's ambling towards where the showers can be found, her booze left behind in her locker.
Evandreus cannot discover a Sawyer, for all his hunting, but he turns around as Duckie declares that the menfolk need talkietime. A question of a glance to Lasher, then back to Duckie. "Um. Later, Duckie," he calls to her, sounding a little bit as though his mouth has cotton balls tucked in it.
Lasher's farewell to Allie consists of a noncommittal grunt as he shimmies out of his blues pants, tossing them over the chair to go with the jacket that's already there. That done, he returns to his booze, his smoke, and his book. He seems to be all talked out for the night. The curtain is drawn closed, though the light remains on a little longer.