| Gloves Off |
| Summary: | Shiv and Spiral have a little exchange over some PT. |
| Date: | 27 Jul 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None. |
| Players: |
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| Athletics Area - Deck 12 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #151 |
| A large pair of mats dominates the center of this room, their centers taped-out for a small area to practice boxing or other martial arts. Around the outside are treadmills, bikes, weights, and an impressive variety of gym equipment to help tone and shape the bodies of the crew. To one side of the room is the locker room while at the rear is a hatch that leads back to the oversized swimming pool. Off to the side is a rack that holds boxing gloves, pugil sticks, and the associated pads for the sticks. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
The gym's fairly quiet this evening; a couple of people at the treadmills with headphones tucked in their ears, someone doing laps in the pool at the far side of the oblong room, and another crew member who's just finished off a set of repetitions at one of the weight machines. A pilot, to be precise: dark-haired and with a slightly bulky build that's been (mostly) honed by PT. He's seated straddling the bench, towel slung around his slouched shoulders, taking a short breather. And staring quite blankly off into space. Deep thoughts, those.
In contrast to Sitka's build is Pallas - older than the Captain and skinnier, with muscles that are toned without much bulk at all. Not bad, for an old man, but not pilot-grade at first glance. He notices the newly-appointed Squadron Leader but says nothing. A few laps around the floor to get warmed up, a few stretches, then he grabs a pair of boxing gloves off the rack and steps up to a bag only a few steps away from Sitka. Jab, jab, cross, knee. Jab, hook. It doesn't take long for sweat to start dripping off him. "Staring off into space won't keep you fit," he says at last, taking a few steps back from the bag to catch his breath. "Captain," he adds after a pause.
Shiv's hardly what one would call a spring chicken, himself. He doesn't quite have Pallas' years, but he's without a doubt one of the older viper jocks in the wing. Blue eyes flicker across to the taller, somewhat lankier officer by the time he makes his way over to the mats, and remain there with a sort of distracted thoughtfulness while he lays into one of the bags. When Pallas speaks, the Captain looks away again, and rubs the towel through his hair a few times before ditching it back into his bag. "You sure?" he murmurs, lips twitching slightly as he lowers himself back on the bench. "I might be onto something here."
Pallas snorts derisively and shakes his head, sending a few beads of sweat flying. "If sitting around looking braindead makes you fit, then the reserve squadrons'd be in a lot better shape than the regular force," he says flippantly. Shuffle-stepping back up to the bag, he gives it a few half-hearted jabs before giving it a good kick, sending it swinging over toward Sitka. "Of course, no such thing as reservists anymore - ain't that right, Squadron Leader?"
Sitka wraps his fingers around the bar, tests his grip, and prepares to begin his next set of reps— when that first little gem pops out of Pallas' mouth. There's silence for a couple of beats, and then he hauls himself back up again, just as the bag comes swinging in his direction. A slight juke of his shoulders to avoid it, even though it's unlikely to have actually hit him; blue eyes once again on the Lieutenant. "You been drinking again, Pallas, or is this just your raw and unbridled charm?" He rubs his knuckles vigorously across the bridge of his nose a few times, seeking an itch perhaps.
Pallas shuffles about the bag in all directions, attacking it here and there. He's got decent power going into the bag, but his form and technique are sloppy at best - any half-decent boxer would be able to see that from halfway across the room. "You actually gotta lift the bar to get PT out of those weights," is all he says in reply, getting in a couple words at a time between strikes. "Captain." Again with that pause. If it's any indication, he doesn't smell of alcohol at all.
Shiv, unfortunately, doesn't seem in much of a hurry to get cracking on those weights again, however. The Lieutenant's jabs — the ones aimed at him, that is — get little more than another faint twitch of his lips. Not quite amusement, but neither irritation. "You know, I used to be active duty." He tips his chin toward the other man. "Like you." Bag shoved aside with his boot, he moves to his feet and lumbers toward Pallas on a somewhat meandering vector. "Until I got sick of the military and its horseshit, that is."
"I used to be a lot of things," Pallas answers in a bemused tone of voice, sparing a glance over to Sitka. It proves to be a mistake on his part, as the second he spends looking away from the bag breaks his rhythm, and it pushes him back a step. "But I am what I am." And there are probably many colorful adjectives that are used on this ship to describe him. As Sitka makes his way over toward him, he slows down his exercise until he's shuffling on the spot, arms dangling at his sides, and the heavy bag is just moving back and forth with its own momentum. "And yet, despite your story, here you are in the military." His eyes twitch down toward Sitka's left arm, then back up. "Wearing an Aquarian tattoo, no less."
"Here I am," Sitka agrees, scratching at his nose once more with the back of his hand. "And here you are. I'd planned on being done in a year. How about you? What's your, uh.. story?" The story behind the ink scrawled over every inch of skin down that arm, whatever it may be, isn't given. Instead, he halts a few feet away and observes the taller pilot and his sussing out of the bag quietly.
"My story?" Pallas echoes, slightly out of breath. "Simple. If the Squadron Leader on my last ship hadn't been a piece of shit, he would've processed my paperwork instead of transferring me off to Cerberus. Then I'd've been ashes on Aquaria with the rest of the lucky ones." So much for release and retirement. At least it explains what an ancient like him is doing playing around in Vipers. He just watches Sitka for a moment in silence. Since it appears he's just gonna stand there and watch, he resumes his session with the bag.
"Is that where you're from?" It's asked somewhere in the span of those seconds where Pallas looks over; eye contact isn't quite given, but Saggies are often weird about that sort of thing. "Aquaria?" Rather than remain at the edge of the Lieutenant's peripheral vision, Shiv ambles in closer, catching the bag on its backswing and steadying it with one hand for Pallas' next hit.
Shiv's steadying the bag? Well, hell, Pallas steps in and gives the bag a full-force punch. Smash his sloppy technique all you want, but he's got a mean cross when his footwork's solid. "Got a problem with Aquarians, Shiv?" he asks. The tone is more wary than challenging - it's not like the man's been taking any of the other bait, so the sport's getting a little bit stale.
Sitka, of course, didn't put his body behind the bag. So the power behind that hit succeeds only in jerking his shoulder back slightly as it jostles his arm; blue eyes stay on Pallas, touched at the corners with a hint of actual mirth with that wary challenge. Like an old dog circling its younger rival over a bone. "My, uh. My first wife was Aquarian, actually. I lived there for a few years, sometimes.." The mirth vanishes, and he glances away, and back again. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't left." After a pause, he snags the bag and steadies it once more. "So what's your problem with me, Pallas? Unless you, uh, want to huff and puff at me a while longer."
"My problem with you is that you're the leader of a stuntman squadron, not a Gods-be-damned fighting force," Pallas answers through gritted teeth, giving the bag another vicious attack. "My problem is your frakking part-time joyriders slapping on Black Knight patches and calling themselves real pilots." Teeth gritted now, he forces the bag back with a one-two combo, and gives it a mean uppercut. "My problem is you trying to 'relate to me'," he finishes, stepping away from the bag and taking the gloves off. "This frakking new-Fleet feel-goodery bullshit."
Sitka actually takes a few moments to absorb all that, stance shifting so he can steady the bag as Pallas goes at it again. He doesn't interrupt, though there's a sharpening of his gaze when it finds the older pilot again. A sharp sniff to clear his sinuses, and then, "I'm not trying to be your friend. And I don't know how your last squadron commander ran things, but I don't find the iron fist approach much to my liking." He continues to regard the man evenly as his gloves come off — literally and figuratively — no attempt made to back away, and yet there's still no hint that he's rising to the bait. "I don't think this is about me, or my squadron, who've flown as hard as anyone. I think this is about you and your axe to grind."
"What, were you a frakking psychologist on the days you weren't on loan to the Fleet?" Pallas asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. He gives Sitka a hard look, gloves hanging over his shoulder, entire body drenched in sweat. "All right, Shiv, let's have it. Since you've got me all figured out already: what, exactly, is my axe to grind?" The gloves get dropped carelessly to the floor so he can cross his arms.
"Naw," Shiv answers, darting a brief grin as Pallas drops his gloves and slants him that hard look; the Captain's fairly sweaty his own self, dark curls sticking up at odd angles, a slight sheen of it on his nose and in the three-day beard scruff he hasn't cared enough to shave off. "I've just raised three kids, and run a squad for four years. I've seen my share of foot stomping, Pallas. But I'll tell you what: you can fly my wing for the next little while." He makes it sound like a good thing. Or might, if not for that almost mean little twist of his lips, courtesy of the scar. "And we'll see what we see. Also.." This, as he's backing away from the bag, "If I catch so much as a whiff of booze on you in the meantime, on duty, off duty, or anywhere in between, we're going to have words. You got it?"
Pallas's eyes narrow to slits at that last part. "I fly sober," he hisses, taking one step closer to the man. Closing range. "You don't have the authority to order me completely dry while the ship is on Condition 3." Or does he? Spiral seems pretty sure of himself. "As for flying your wing, I'd rather lick Toast's hairy asshole. Pull in one of your own Canaries to watch your backside."
Shiv's already lumbering off by the time Pallas gets around to mentioning Toast's 'hairy asshole'. He snags the strap of his duffle, hoists it up onto his shoulder, and turns to slant the man a hard look over his shoulder. No smiling, no laughing, no levity in sight. "See you at oh six hundred tomorrow on the flight deck, Pallas." At least he doesn't add insult to injury by saluting the junior officer. Just flicks his eyes over him briefly, then turns to go, shoulders drawn forward in their habitual slouch.
"You smug little son of a bitch," Pallas mutters as Sitka lumbers off. He just kind of stands there even after the man is long gone, then pulls on his gloves to beat down on the heavy bag again. More anger and less chatting this time.