PHD #266: Haunted
Summary: Rumor has it that the Head on Deck 4 is haunted. Some manner of ghosts definitely manifest.
Date: 19 Nov 2041 AE
Related Logs: If Not That... (most things Sawyer & Trask); Benefit of the Doubt (the façade of strutting ego)
Sawyer Trask 
Head - Deck 4 - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #266
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.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

There had been rumors that the Head on Deck 4 is haunted. Victims. Eye-witness accounts. Some have written it off as an elaborate practical joke; others as the onset of exhaustion-induced psychosis. Whatever the truth of the matter, Kal Trask really doesn't care. (Maybe ghosts don't grope those who molest themselves.) No sooner than he steps through the hatch, the ECO is unfastening his belt and unzipping his fly, plotting a course for one of several urinals.

It might not be the closest one to the News Room, but it's certainly the cleanest as the traffic in here is far less simply out of paranoia. Maybe Sawyer and the 'ghost' have struck up some sort of mutually beneficial deal: I won't bother you, if you don't bother me. She's sitting on a bench, meticulously going through her wet strands of hair and clipping off any that seem to be split with a pair of small gold handled scissors. Snip. As someone else enters the Head, she glances up through a fringe of newly cut bangs to spy Kal. "If you shake it more than twice, you're playing with it." She quips as he breezes through.

"News flash, Scoop: I'm already playin' with it." At the very least, shakes or no shakes, the appendage in question is now out and about, aimed at the receptacle. As he empties his bladder, Trask's other hand digs into the front of his pants and moves around a bit. In truth, he's trying to scratch his nutsack. How that actually looks to on-lookers is another matter entirely. Glancing aside, he notices the golden scissors cutting the blonde hair. "Afraid you'll get stuck with a flattop?" If she were to visit the military barber.

Thankfully, his back is pretty much to her so she doesn't need to see any of the gruesome details of what his business entails over there. Even if she flicks a curious glance once or twice in that direction. Well, it's for ease of conversation, afterall. SNIP. "Why waste someone's time when I'm perfectly capable of doing this myself. It's not as if I have a particularly challenging hairstyle, and it's long enough now that I can pull the back around front to clip the split ends. When is the last time /you've/ had a haircut? Put that thing away and I'll give you a trim."

"I'll put it away when I'm good an' ready," he retorts. Seems that Bootstrap has been drinking a lot of coffee and a lot of water because, as the saying goes, he's peeing like a racehorse. Nutsack successfully scratched, that hand is removed from the inside of his pants. Meanwhile, he idly waves his shlong in mild movement, as if trying to give the urination a song-song quality. To a discerning ear, the alteration in sound might be evident. As for the rest, "You're into manscaping, eh?" No, it's not what she meant, but he's not the sort to pass up an opportunity to twist the meaning of words that were arranged a certain way. "Virgan thing, I suppose."

"Hey. Someone has to." Sawyer replies glibly, tousling her hair with her fingers to make sure the hang is at least some what uniform. "Otherwise it's like trying to fight your way through the underbrush just to get your hands around the tree. Well. Sapling, in your case." She smirks to herself, then continues on a new section of hair, trimming away the tattered ends so everything looks shiny and new.

"Magic beanstalk, actually," is the quipped correction. Coming up on the home stretch, there is a final spurt. Well, three. Tsss. Tsss. Tsss. Wiggle, tap-off, dab, and then he's tucking that wondrous thing back into his boxer-briefs, making adjustments, and then zipping up. Fastening his belt, Kal wanders to a sink to commence washing his hands. "You keep your deep sea cave clear of kelp?" So casual is this inquired.

"Trimmed enough to keep the sea creatures from trying to roost." The scissors jangle as she gives them a shake to free a persistent clump of strands to the deck. "Uninhabitable waters. Watch out for sharks. Magic beanstalk…" Sawyer repeats under her breath, a soft laugh accompanying the words. "And to think, Jack gave away a perfectly good cow…" The reporter sits a little straighter to examine her progress in the mirror, which isn't terribly noticeable as she's only cleaning off the ends.

"Uninhabitable, huh?" Unlike some people, Trask actually lathers the liquid soap before rinsing off his hands. "Better sharks than crabs, I suppose." Turning to better regard Sawyer, "So." Beat for emphasis, followed by droplets of water flicked off his fingertips. "You a natural blonde?" It is asked with the utmost cavalier cheek.

"I'm not sure. You'll have to check, if you brought your scuba gear.." The reporter, in her silk floral robe post-shower gets to her feet and pads over across the wet mats towards the mirrors where she leans over the sink and examines her work close up. She's not even so much as looking at the man next to her, washing his hands. "But beware of fins. Sharp teeth and all that." This time when the scissors snip, it's in the air in a mock-threatening manner.

Kal quirks a good-natured smirk. "Been in the Navy some 15 or so years but have not once been stationed in, on, or underwater." What he's getting at with that statement isn't something he explains. "You missed a spot," is breezily relayed, which may or may not be true. Being honest and being a snot are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

Sawyer makes a little cut of an adjustment, which may or may not be to what Kal was referring to about missing a spot. While she may be joking around with the man, she's taking her hair styling to be very very serious. As her damp curls are steadily drying, they start to develop a slight curl it appears the woman must straighten out mechanically for her every day appearance. "Fear of snorkling. So noted. I'm starting to compile quite a mental file on you, Kal. You should be frightened." Sawyer turns to face the man finally, her free hand reaching out to touch at his hair. "You really should let me give you a trim."

The man neither confirms nor denies any such fear, whether that be literal or some manner of euphemism. In a somewhat musing manner, those emotive brown eyes of his take in the onset of curl in Sawyer's hair, then dart to her face when she speaks of a mental file. It's an almost incredulous look, laced with humor and suspicion, but it doesn't linger. "Is this the part where you attempt to stab me with your shears?" Smirkity-smirk. Even so, that approaching hand is dubiously watched.

The hand, contrary to popular belief, seems to wish no ill will upon the man and the fingers merely draw one shock of his hair out to examine the length. "No stabbing. I'm not really into changing gender roles." Sawyer states simply, and that said, she motions to towards the bench she just vacated with a flash of light catching on the pointy blade of her scissors. "Sit down, so I don't screw this up and you'll have to go get one of those loathsome flattops."

Bootstrap is still suspicious. Something in the way his eyes flicker is suggestive that reasons and scenarios are rapidly cycling in his brain. There's an angle being worked here. He just doesn't know what it is. "/Or/ I can /not/ sit and /still/ not need a flattop," is quipped.

"Oh, Kal, cut the bullshit. I'm offering to do something nice for you for the sake of doing something nice. I get that you've had a shitty past, and now you're overcompensating with sarcasm and so many other defense mechanisms you'd be a shrink's wet dream. I get that, I do. Let me tell you, my life hasn't been roses either. I'm not asking for anything. Just a haircut. Yes or no?" Sawyer's voice is partly exasperated, but she does a very good job of trying to keep it on an even keel.

Calling him out like that most certainly doesn't get him to lower his guard. If anything, the man actually bristles and his eyes become overly keen. Anger. Anxiety. Apprehension. Defensiveness. Disorientation. Distrust. Fear. Loathing. Paranoia. Resentment. Wariness. Weariness. Rapidly, these emotions churn in that acute gaze that grows increasingly brooding. "How horrible it must've been to have endured daisies," he derides. Oh, but then something else the blonde said registers, and Trask has an epiphany. "So, /that's/ it." Yes, he /finally/ understands what 'works' for her. "You get off on people being frakked up."

"I actually get off on people answering simple questions. You can't get much more rudimentary than 'yes' and 'no'." The two don't seem to be firing on all cylinders when it comes to each other, so Sawyer just tosses the scissors with a clatter into the steel basin of the sink. "Much as you've pulled yourself out of Black Country, I similarly struggled to get out of the Country Club. Yes, poor me, I'm sure you'd say in your most sardonic tone." Her eyes have long since gone back to her reflection and she's leaning forward to study her own reflection. "But there's nothing like being forced into that life of porcelain masks where everything has to seem so sublime on the surface so no one will suspect everything is rotting just beneath the surface." The pad of her finger pulls at the corner of her eye. "Daddy is sleeping with the neighbor's wife, mommy drinks martinis until she passes out in the lawn furniture, yet nobody knows. Then you have a little girl who just becomes obsessed with the truth."

Her eyes flick to his face in the mirror, faltering as if unsure whether or not she ought to continue, but then she presses on. "Cue college. Journalism. Forcing my way into whatever situation I needed to to follow a lead. Moving so many times, I just started to live in shit-ass hotels. Anything concrete was scary as hell. In fact, one man I was dating asked me to marry him and I packed up and shipped out the very next morning. And then I…" She stops mid-sentence and sort of slumps, fingers touching to her temple. "You know what? Just forget it. A wise man once told me, 'frak 'em'."

If he weren't brooding, perhaps his opinion about all he's hearing would be more evident. Kal doesn't compare scars, though, figuratively or literally. It's not the Black Country way to air one's dirty laundry. For a moment, there is some weighted silence when Sawyer abruptly stops and slightly slump forwards. "I have it on good authority that guy's more of a wiseass than a wise anything else." Self-deprecating humor: the closest thing to an olive branch in the here and now. "I'm bankin' you're a natural blonde, but oh the irony if you're not." Facetiousness is a fortress.

Sawyer pushes her hair out of her face as she straightens up, "You're just a bully who bullies because he's afraid of the truth. It's what you are, and I'll just have to accept that. But I no longer respect it." The olive branch seems to be declined, if she was ever aware it was extended. Her little scissors are retrieved and slipped into the pocket of her silk robe before she tightly cinches the tie. If she was ever even half serious about that offer for him to check, that too seems to be revoked. "I'll go ahead and leave before you start pretending you don't care. Forgive me if I don't want to bear witness."

"It's congruent with the underpinnings of anger and self-loathing that support my façade of strutting ego," is the rueful reply, recalling what was said the first and last time someone incisively deconstructed him. It is a moment of pensiveness, the small smile wry and sad and full of brazen self-awareness. Kal is acutely aware of what he's like. "Nothin' to forgive," he simply concludes, unconsciously crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Besides, I just needed to take a piss." Which he did. "You stay and do…" one hand is flourished in a 'frakked if I know the specifics' gesture, "whatever it is you women do to be all… womanly." Smooth as sandpaper, but some might find such ineptitude endearing. "Yeaaaaah. I'm gonna go." Uncomfortable emotional cripple is uncomfortable.

Before he takes his leave, though, he draws close enough to relay, "You missed a spot." The index finger of his left hand extends with the intent to lightly flick Sawyer's earlobe. One final, wan joke.

Sawyer turns her head away from the gesture, his finger barely making contact. "Actually, it seems I was rather spot on." She murmurs quietly, her voice lacking any strength of conviction or pride in that fact. And with that, she parts ways with Kal "Bootstrap" Trask.

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