| Gift Giving |
| Summary: | Sawyer and Trask exchange gifts. One of those presents just happens to be an encrypted transmission from a Heavy Raider. |
| Date: | 25 Dec 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Fire on the Mountain (the transmission) & Very Satisfied (*smooch*) |
| Players: |
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| News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #302 |
| 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: 2 - Danger Close |
Condition 2 lingers, and thusly Sawyer's 'clearance' isn't nearly as flexible as normal so she's trying to stick to places that won't necessarily make any waves (at least until it's worth making some). As such, she's predictably at her desk poring over some notes or another while she's test driving a new pair of glasses. That's right, Sawyer Averies needs reading spectacles. They're a rather dark framed rectangular pair she's currently wearing low on the bridge of her nose while she squints over the top of the rims instead of, you know, actually using the things like she ought.
Condition 2 means that a certain squadron leader is practically living in his flight suit. For the time being, he's still not sleeping in his bunk, but Trask isn't necessarily getting all his shut-eye in the makeshift medical ward on the starboard deck. He's certainly not holding 'office' hours or handling paperwork there. None of which really matters in the here and now. Uninvited and unannounced, he spins the wheel and opens the hatch, waltzing right on in. "Even as a fashion statement, it works better if you look like you're lookin' through 'em."
Averies uses her middle finger to push the frames back up to the bridge of her nose, gracing him with a small smirk. "I'm still getting used to them. They're supposed to alleviate the headaches, but I'm told there's an adjustment period." Apparently, whatever 'work' Sawyer was doing can be ignored for the time being, and the Journalist leans back in her chair to face her visitor. "I'd say I'm glad you're not dead again, but that'll eventually get old in our line of work." That's right. OUR.
"Oh, but you say it with your eyes," the man replies with an impish little smile, moseying over. It would seem that his flight helmet has been left on the Deck. Toasty as it is in the flight suit, it's been partially unzipped. Thankfully, any b.o. that there is manages to be masked by the aroma of the Allegheny tobacco he's smoking. All bets are off should he deign to invade the blonde's personal space. For the time being, Trask does not. "So, I'd ask if you've been a good little girl, but we both know /that/ answer." A cursory glance reveals that it, yet again, is just the two of them in the News Room. "Anyway, that's rather irrelevant. What matters is how bad you wanna be." Clearly, he has something in mind. Just what that is, however, isn't as evident as one might expect.
Maybe it's the tobacco smell that clings to the man, or the mention of being 'bad', but either way, Sawyer suddenly needs a cigarette. She plucks one out of the pack sitting on her desk and starts tapping the unfiltered end on her desk while she regards him. "If this is going to be another crack at bending me over the desk, I'll have to amusedly remind you it was just one kiss and you have yet to buy me dinner." She flips the cigarette between her knuckles before tucking it between her lips. "Spill it." She mumbles around the cylinder of her cigarette while searching for a lighter in that mess she calls a work station.
Pffft, puh-leeze. That's the sentiment his expression and eye-rolling conveys. "I'm quite certain you tasted what I'd had for dinner." That counts, right? Tastebuds and tongues aside, the kiss in question isn't further commented upon. Instead, Bootstrap unzips one of his many flight suit pockets and pulls out and proffers a data stick. "Not the traditional Saturnalia gift," he smirks because that would be booze, "but I doubt you'll be complaining." Never mind that the festival ended a few days ago.
Gimme gimme! Sawyer does the enthusiastic finger curl, presenting her palm for the deposit of the little data drive. Once she has it, she's already looking for the little port on her laptop to plug it in. "I tasted mint." As to what he had for dinner, of course, but her words are distracted as she's using the little touch pad to maneuver the mouse on her screen to open up the files. "What is this? The secret memoirs of Skinjob number Eleven? Porn? Security footage of Sergeant Constin picking his nose?" All those seem to be acceptable 'gifts' on her list. Amidst all that tech-geeking out she's doing, she mutters, "Top drawer." As some sort of instruction to Trask.
"That was dinner," he remarks, leaving it at that. Regarding the data, "None of the above, but if you're hard-up for porn, I can hook you up." Really. He can. All thanks to Lieutenant Marvin "Prince" Albert, may Dionysus keep him in good company, so say we all. As for what the data is, "I'm hopin' you can tell me. All I can piece together is that it's the same that was being directly transmitted to CIC. Basic Cee-Ess is covered in Eee-Eee, but I'm not much of a programmer. I can encode and even decrypt, but this is beyond my purview." ECOs, skilled as they are with electronic warfare, do things somewhat differently than hackers and cryptologists. "Seein' that there still might be a mole in CIC, I'd like a second opinion, so to speak." A bit suspiciously, Kal peers at Sawyer, but he ultimately does check the top drawer. "Dare I ask what I'm looking for?"
Sawyer looks at the screen from behind her new lenses, eyes quickly scanning the source code on it with a little curl to her lip that's half way between a snarl and a smirk. "This /is/ my porn," she mutters, quickly copying the data from the stick to another that she quickly snaps into her machine. Her fingers drum idly on the keys without really depressing any while she waits for the file to copy over. "It's going to take me a while, I'm a bit rusty." She realizes he's opened the drawer and mutters an 'oh!' and reaches over, pulling out a random shoe (how did that get in there?) and beneath is a folded up white t-shirt that has 'I'm with Stupid' printed on the front. Instead of the prototypical arrow pointing right or left, however, there's damn near a dozen of them splayed out in every direction but directly up and directly down. "What /do/ you get the man who has everything?"
Unraveling the item to see just what it says, a chuckle surfaces, complete with a crinkle of his nose and an amused smile. "Present company excluded, naturally," he quips, because it never hurts to play up to a smart woman's vanity. "I'll treasure it always." /That/ bit is perhaps a bit cheeky, but Kal appears to genuinely appreciate the gift. Back to the pr0n… "Less time than it'd take me." And he sure as frak doesn't have enough to spare for something like this. "The usual caveat of keeping it to yourself applies, yadda yadda. Security an' clearance and all that rot." Although the man doesn't seem particularly concerned.
"Yes, well. It was in the clothing drive and no one else wanted it." Playing it down for pride's sake, of course. The blonde turns back to the screen, taking a lazy toke from her cigarette. "You know what they say. Give a hundred monkeys a hundred typewriters and a hundred years, they'll eventually bang out a literary masterpiece. I think I'll have something for you in at least half that time. But I have to warn you, so far I've been unsuccessful at cracking anything I've lifted off the Cylons. Maybe I'll have more luck as this had to be transmitted, so it'll also have something that had to /receive/ it as well."
"Here's hopin'," is concurred before Bootstrap partakes of another drag. The t-shirt is folded lengthwise and then draped over his right shoulder. "Tactical will just tell me that info is above my paygrade." Snicker. "/You/ have no paygrade, though," he mischievously smiles. "Anyway, whatever you can uncover'll be appreciated." Despite the nonchalance of it, the sentiment is sincere. That said, he preps to take his leave. "As much as I wouldn't mind to stick around for the peepshow, I'll leave you to wank in peace." Metaphorically, that is… although perhaps literally, too, seeing how Sawyer referred to it as porn.
"Oh, you expect me to /share/ the results? Well, that may just have to cost you extra." There's wry amusement in Sawyer's voice. There's an annoyed flap of her hand, "Yes. Go. All your incessant yapping is distracting. Next time you come back, bring me food." Because there's a good chance that she'll barely surface for air now that she's got a new goal to attain. Projects, for the win!
A decisive, but not particularly painful tug of the blonde's hair ensues. "Just keep in mind that I charge a service fee that surpasses any terms you may have." Such a rascally gleam in those big brown eyes, that naughty mirth quirking his lips. And, with that, he departs.