| Greetings & Salutations |
| Summary: | Santiago makes Quinn's acquaintance, then Sitka's shit list. |
| Date: | 2041.02.24 |
| Related Logs: | A few hours after Hazard. |
| Players: |
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| Naval Head | Deck 4 - Battlestar Cerberus | Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Like any normal head on the ship, this one is painted in light grey with some blue around the top of the room. Down the center there are 16 sinks, 8 on each side backed up to each other. Along the hull areas of the room, showers and lockers are toward the back and off to the left of the sinks are closed toilets and open urinals.
In the back of the Head, one of the showers is running at full blast. There are no clothes piled up on a bench, which means whomever it is must have taken all of their crap back there with them. Judging by the amount of steam billowing out of the stall yonder, there's clearly been some serious showering going on. The only indication given as to who might be back in the stalls is a pair of black boots positioned just outside the shower stall, keeping them well away from water. Expensive boots. Kami is the designer, for those in the known. Aquarian.
Deck four's head is one of the best places on the ship to enjoy a smoke in peace between shifts. It also happens to be pretty handy for taking a piss, too. Which is precisely what one of the wing's squadron Captains wanders in to do. A stall is picked, the door slams shut, and the sound of a zipper follows; none of it's probably caught over the the roar of that shower, though.
Completely stifled for flying today, her bird out of order, Maggie's still half fighting the want to punch something. The best way to fight that, other than actually doing it, is to take a nice, hot, long shower and forget it ever happened. So, flight suit discarded in the berthings behind her, Maggie steps into the room, a towel across her arm and just wearing her skivvies. She gives a quick look to the showers…Now… which is the least awkward spot. The far shower already taken, usually the safest one, she debates between a shower close to the occupied one and far from the door, or if she should give them all some breathing room. She finally heads for one in the middle.
It's not long after new folks arrive to the Head that the shower in the back shuts off. Perhaps the occupant can sense arrivals. Or maybe the pruned skin thing just kicked in with a vengeance. There's some movement from within, and then a soft thunk. "Ow." Graceful as ever. The door to the shower opens, and the occupant steps out, wearing a fluffy white robe that covers her body from neck to ankle. It almost drags the floor, but noooot quite. She's coming out just as Quinn is going in. "Pardon." Santiago pulls her robe tighter, and pads over to the nearest mirror. Without her boots on, she barely makes it to five foot five. Most folks are undoubtedly used to seeing her wandering around at five foot ten or eleven, depending on the shoes. Her platinum blonde hair isn't much darker when wet, slicked in some places, spiked in others. She ruffles her hands through her hair swiftly, flipping droplets of moisture everywhere within a radius.
Sitka emerges after a few moments himself, to the tune of a flush, a zip and a thunk of combat boots on deck. The sight of the Kami boots outside that shower stall give him brief pause, but he continues on to the bank of sinks without stopping, save to shoot his fellow squadron Captain a small smile. "Hey, Maggie." The irritated look is no doubt noticed, but isn't commented upon. For now. After briefly following her with his eyes, he bellies up to a sink at the end and cranks on the cold water. And looks across to find a significantly.. shorter Santiago. It takes him a few seconds to murmur, "Miss Blue."
Quinn was going to shower. But then she sees Miss Blue. And the sheer thought of even -looking- at her naked body can't stand up to THAT. Maggie just does a double take in the Civilian's direction, really not used to seeing them on this deck, much less in her shower. Her previous smoldering anger goes to odd self consciousness in the split of a heartbeat…"…ma'am…" She mutters to the woman, half speechless otherwise… before her eyes flicker over to Sikta. "…Captain. I… didn't realize we were… Sharing showers." Her usually stark Caprican upper crust accent studders out. She's flustered.
The civvie doesn't react to spare clothing coverage. Though she's wrapped up pretty well in a robe, she doesn't seem prudish. Or perhaps it's just not polite to remark on someone else's hiney in the bathroom. "I live with the enlisted until they set me free on Aquaria," she murmurs in Quinn's direction. Santiago pauses in her grooming, leans just slightly to the left, and peers between the mirrors to find the (now) taller viper Captain standing opposite. Her arms remain raised for just a moment, perhaps long enough to glimpse a tattoo on her inner left arm, the text of which is written in a script, elbow to wrist. "Sitka." She does not correct him, but there is a pointed look. One which he probably misses, given the Saggie Captain's predilection for avoiding eye contact. Oh, yes, and there's some emphasis thrown into the name just to be sure he knows.
A predilection which extends to smiles that come off like sneers. It might've been the harsh enunciation of his name, or it might just be he's had a long day, rather like Quinn over there. But it's gone a moment later, and Sitka's expression is once again impassive as he squirts military grade liquid soap on his hands, and scrubs them clean under the faucet. "Looking forward to being home?" he asks, blue eyes sliding over the ink briefly before dropping away again.
Quinn nods slightly to the woman, "I see. Well…Hope that's going… Well…" Maggie is more than a bit awkward, a strange position for her to be in. Around her troops, she's so commanding, together, smooth, but here she's like a nerdy teenage girl being walk passed by the head cheerleader. Not really able to wash her hair until she lets it free, she sets her towel down on the edge of the sink and begins to quickly unravel those fiery red locks from the usual restraining braid. Free, her hair is a massive mess of untamed red curls. No wonder it's so frizzy. She doesn't intrude on the pair otherwise.
"It is. It's going better than expected. I'm finding the crew to be, for the most part, lovely." Santiago's arms drop, and she wipes her hands on her robe, drying them in the folds of what must be a luxurious piece of bathroom attire. It certainly looks comfortable. She reaches deep into the pocket, and drags out a small toothbrush (travel size) and a small toothpaste (also travel size). She glances over to Quinn, and though she seems to offer the reservist Captain a bit of a chilly reception, the smile sent the redhead's way is friendly. "You have truly stunning hair…" She let's the pause drag out, until someone fills in the identity blank. The implication is heavy that someone should do introductions. Since the only someone who knows this information on both sides is Sitka, Santi's eyes flick to him. She waits, and loads up the brush with paste. Pointed.
"Do you intimidate all the women like that?" Ibrahim asks, eyes on his reflection in the mirror rather than Santiago herself. Though Quinn gets a brief glance as she loosens her hair from the braid he's almost always seen it in. Then he's getting a pointed look of some sort from the platinum blonde, and it takes him a second to interpret it. Savage that he is. "Oh. Right." He cranks off the faucet, and dries his hands off on the thighs of his fatigues. "Maggie, this is Miss Santiago Blue. She's here to evaluate the Deck." He rifles for his pack of cigarettes. "Maggie's the squadron leader for the Harriers."
Quinn gives a momentary, awkwardly craving glare at the cigarettes, but she shakes her head at the thought and tries to free a bit more of her hair from those last few tangles that always manage to invade despite the fact it's constantly pinned down in a braid. If she -thinks- about moving her head, somehow her red hair tangles all over itself. And yet the blonde beauty seems to like it? Maggie smirks, half skeptical…"Ah… thanks' ma'am. Ms. Blue, that is… Captain has it right… Captain Margaret Quinn, though… to be formal." She doesn't offer up either of her nicknames, though Sitka's already referred to her as one. Eventually, manners catch up with her and she does actually offer a hand in Santiago's direction.
"There's a slight narrowing her her eyes at Sitka, but the man probably doesn't even notices. "Manners." Santiago shakes her head and dismisses the question, then turns her full attention to the redheaded Captain. She sets down her toothbrush, then toothpaste carefully, with a light click as the hard plastic of the toothbrush makes contact, then takes a step over to offer a warm, but mostly dry hand to Quinn. "I hate to be formal, if you don't mind. What will I call you in that case? Maggie, yes." It's not really a request for permission, though she might be swayed of the pilot shows some aversion to the familiarity. The shake is brief, firm. There are subtle calluses across her knuckles on her palms, though they're somewhat softened by the water. That may come as surprise on a QUODEL member. Particularly one with 700 cubit shoes. "The Harriers are the raptors, aren't they?"
Formality's clearly not Sitka's strong suit. While the two women get acquainted, he shakes out a cigarette, tucks it between his lips, and wanders off a few paces while he lights it so as not to clog the area around the sinks. One more week of hobnobbing with civilians and military. One point five at the absolute most. Just grin and bear it.
Quinn's got her own share of callouses. A rather large amount, actually, the sort of hands usually only a hard labourer might have. They certainly don't match her trim Caprican accent, though they go along with the freckles and the crazy hair. At the QUODEL member's comment about formality, Maggie just half smirks. "Whatever you wish, ma'am. Though… I should shower. Safe travels, yes?" Much in the same boat as Sitka — be polite, quiet and humble and they'll all be gone in a week.
It's funny, because those thoughts are pretty much the thoughts that go through Santiago's head on a nigh daily basis. At the moment, the civilian/politico/whatever she actually is, seems content to make the acquaintance of the redheaded raptor driver, even if it is in the Head. "Maggie it is. Santiago if you prefer." She leaves the choice, which has probably already been made, as evidenced, to Maggie. There's a nod, then she turns back to the sinks to resume the grooming ritual. Her eyes flick briefly to Sitka, or more likely, his cigarette, then she picks up the toothbrush, and shoves it into her mouth. There's a pause before she asks, "Looking forward to the ceremony in two days?"
Sitka lifts his eyes as Quinn starts making noises about retreating to the shower, and flashes the woman a brief smile. The time on his watch says he's got eleven minutes until his shift starts, which shouldn't be too painful in terms of entertaining the civilian. "The ship's commissioning? Sure." How's that for diffident. "I'll probably miss out on most of the ceremony, though, as I've got a demonstration to run." Somehow, the thought of being up in the cockpit instead of standing around in his stuffy dress greys, doesn't seem to bother him too much.
"Going to be there with a pair of scissors and a bottle of champagne?" he continues, sliding Santiago a sidelong look over one shoulder; the other's pressed up against the wall while he smokes.
Quinn flashes one more almost nervous smile in their directions before she finally pushes open one of the back shower stalls now — not the one Santiago came from, that'd be weird, but rather right next to it so she's still safely shoved in the back corner. She disappears behind the stall and tosses her towel over the door. Her skivvies soon come next and the hot water is turned one, drowning out any other conversation from Maggie's ears.
"I'm going to be there in a white evening gown, the most expensive shoes I own, and full of champagne. If I'm not drunk by the time the damn thing's over, I'm submitting a bitchy report and making someone's life hell." Santiago says all of that in a pause in brushing her teeth. She spits, too. Might have been kidding. Might. Then resumes brushing briefly. The fwsh-fwsh of the bristles stops, then she asks, "Are you this chatty with everyone, or did I get the lucky short straw?" She leans over to spit again.
Sitka smokes and listens silently while Santiago speaks, his free hand shoved into a pocket of his fatigues, and his shoulders slouched slightly beneath his unbuttoned jacket. When she reaches the rhetorical question, a slight smirk touches his lips, and he gives a little shake of his head like he knows where this is going already. "Are you this much of a bitch with everyone, or do I just turn your crank, lady?" It's clear that when he says 'lady', he does not mean it in the strict sense of the word.
"Sitsie, crumpet," And here it comes, "You're a weekend warrior with a chip on his shoulder. I respect pilots have to have a gas tank in their belly to make in into the cockpit and pull the hot shit tricks you turn, but for the love of all things cranked off the Kami line," that was a shoe reference, for those playing at home, "Why in the frak does it have to come out like you have the world's largest stick up your ass? Dismissive, unfriendly, superior — you know, about the only Saggie stereotype you haven't whipped out of your pants, is the one in your pants." She reaches up to wipe some toothpaste dribble from her chin, and gestures with her toothbrush, too.
..did she just call him Sitsie? And accuse him of turning tricks? Well, he might look like a soft, aging has-been of a pilot, but Sitka? Is a Saggie. And no Saggie nowhere ever let a woman get away with talking to him like that. He pushes off the wall, prowls on in nice and close to Santiago, and makes direct eye contact. Close enough that she can smell the nicotine on his breath, and the soap he washed his hair with not too long ago. And a little je ne sais quoi that can probably only be described as pilot stink: viper grease, neoprene and sweaty berths. "Your presence here on this boat, Miss Blue, frankly makes me sick. This is a frakking gong show. You know it. I know it. Fleet HQ knows it. I don't even think you're qualified to make any kind of assessments where the Deck's concerned. I figure it's your daddy's way of keeping you out of trouble, while he circle jerks with the other stuffed shirts." He flicks his cigarette away, crushes it out with his boot, and steps past her. Something's added very, very softly on his way by, "By the way, nice tits." Considering one's currently saying hello, courtesy of her robe having slid open a few inches.
Santi gives the faucet a sharp twist, sending a spray of water into the basin. She shoves her toothbrush under it, and lets the water pressure pound the minty suds from the bristles. At least that was what she was going to do. And then, pilotpilotpilot incoming. Santiago actually backs up a step, taken almost to the wall by the advance. A little frown line appears between her brows as the taller, and heavier, pilot advances, and goes full on Saggie. The onslaught of scathing words rolls right over her, and the little blonde straightens, chin coming up right about the time he hits 'Daddy's way'. She takes a shark breath, shoulders kicking back a little, and her lips part. That's when he turns, and that soft comment catches her. Before the Captain gets two steps past her, she's moving to grab hold of his upper arm. Her grip is strong, stronger than she looks, for sure. Her nails dig in simply by virtue of their length. She gives him a shove to try to pivot him around, though doesn't let go. "You." She yanks her robe closed with her other hand, clutching it high at her throat. "Apologize. Right now." She doesn't flush, she doesn't gasp, and stomp, and do the guppy shocked look. What she does do, is drop a warning that doesn't sound like it's coming from a politician's daughter.
Taller, heavier and over a decade her senior. Which could actually end up working against him, but hey. He appears unfettered by the blonde's attempts to bristle up and appear bigger, and also appears to have every intention of bustling right past her — before she digs her fingers into his arm and pulls him back. It's muscled, though not ridiculously so. Enough to fly what he flies, and pull the tricks he does. Blue eyes drop just shy of her darker greens, and heavens help him, a little sneer slips across his lips, twisting on the scar. "I'm sorry." That's about as sincere as Santiago's acrylic eyelashes. "You're going to have to let me go, miss. I've got a shift to make."
"You're not sorry, you're old." Santi's grip tightens, threatening the sanctity of her fingernails. Since he's not making eye contact, her eyes are on his mouth when his lips twist. Her chest rises with an intake of breath. It's the sneer that really does it. Apparently, the apology wasn't good enough, because she opens her palm, and slaps him right across the cheek, hard. A couple of scratches may be left behind by the passage of her nails, depending on how fast his head turns with it — or if it does. The slap is hard enough to sting her palm, and certainly quite loud. "And slow. Never talk about my family, you frakkin' root chewer." When she does release him, it's more of a shove ala 'get the frak out'.
No argument from the Saggie. Which might just possibly be more irritating than the alternative. His teeth touch slightly, but don't grind, when her nails dig into his bicep. And then her hand meets his cheek, and the sheer unexpectedness of it — and possibly the force — snaps his head sideways. Right. This is going to be a fun one to explain. "Are you finished, miss?" Again with the miss. Once she's tossed out her last insult, and shoved him away, he informs her, "You touch me again like that and I'll write you up." Probably an empty threat. There's a long pause, and then he heads for the hatch with an agitated cadence to his stride. It's going to be a long frakking week.
"Unless you're doing it with a Picon Five-seveN, you can do it now then shove it up your ass, if you can get it past the four by six." Santiago's response is fairly sporting, as these responses go. "What is that." That question is more to herself, and more of a rhetorical, than anything else. "Ms. Blue. How hard is that? It's not hard. Little four year olds can say it in unison." She stalks away from the sinks toward the stalls, where she left her boots, and her clothes, all folded up on the shelf of the last shower. "Frakkin' Gods damned military wanker asshole motherfff." The stream of profanity launches from standard Caprican English into something a little less wholesome, but it's all at a modest volume, if extremely rapid fire. She grabs up her clothes, and her boots, and heads for the hatch as well. The patience, it grows thin. "I would never call Ramon 'Daddy'. The frak." She glances down at her robe, to check the sanctity of the girls, then mutters, "Can't believe that just happened to me."
The pilot, of course, is out the hatch round about the time Santiago reaches that bit about the military's standard issue aircrew firearm. He doesn't slam it, and he doesn't storm out. But you can just bet his night's gone to shit, thanks to Ms. S. Santiago Blue. Thunk.