| I Inhaled |
| Summary: | Sawyer and Cidra meet up for a night of gossip. Off the record. |
| Date: | 28 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Ghosts of the Past, Significance, How to Live, & any dealing with new civilian government. |
| Players: |
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| CAG's Office - Deck 10 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Though it's not much bigger than the average ship supply closet, the office of the commander of Cerberus' air group has as much luxury as one can hope for aboard a battlestar: a hatch that locks. It is dominated by a blocky gray metal desk straight out of standard Navy supply. Behind it is the room's single indulgence, a high-backed rolling chair of almost comfortable-looking brown leather. That one, the CAG probably had to import herself. A few other chairs are shoved against the wall, able to be rolled over should visitors to the lair require one, though those are of the standard not-terribly-comfortable Navy offices variety. The aforementioned desk contains a computer that looks rarely touched and an ashtray of greenish glass that is obviously frequently used, as well as the standard office supplies. The surface is usually cluttered with files, squadron reports, flight schedules and other aerial bureaucratic sundry of the day. A metal carafe, filled with water or coffee or tea depending on the CAG's whim, is usually at hand on the desk's corner. The rest of the office is packed with filing cabinets and wall shelves, the latter of which hold various flight manuals and military and historical books. Any decorations on the walls are limited to professional awards and mementos from Major Hahn's past tours of service. It is largely devoid of the personal, save for one item: upon the shelf just behind and above her desk, serving as one side of a bookend to a collection of Raptor manuals, is a wooden statue of a small brown owl with very large eyes. A person might get the feeling of those eyes following him around this confined space. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #214 |
It is O'Dark Thirty and, while time really has no meaning on a battlestar, the Naval Offices run at a slightly more 'work day' pace than the rest of the ship. So it's fairly deserted as Cidra leads Sawyer back to her office. The CAG just came off CAP, for her part, and off duty. So she's still in her flight suit and has not bothered to shower. She's just been off long enough to finish her post-flight check and meet up with the reporter. "Do not worry. My hatch locks. On of the few perks of this job is some modicum of privacy." Said as she's opening her hatch.
"That's good to hear. Privacy ranks right up there with other luxuries like cigarettes and alcohol." Still, the Journalist looks over her shoulder just before she steps inside Cidra's office, then ducks inside as if about to partake in something particularly illegal like drinking in a duty area. Which might explain the tote Sawyer carries slung over her shoulder. "Thanks for making the time, I can only imagine you're a busy woman right now, what with losing…" There's an uncomfortable clearing of her throat, "one of your section leads."
Cidra's office is darkened when they enter, though she flips a light on in short order. She seems not concerned about drinking, or doing whatever else she has planned, in a duty area. For one of such outer rigidity, her willingness to bend certain areas of the regs can be surprising. One might immediately notice the small mountain of paperwork her desk is buried in. At first glance, it's all mind-numbing aerial bureaucracy. Old maintenance reports, mainly, and duty logs from the deck. Piles and piles and folders and folders of them. Cidra grimaces and promptly begins transferring them, as neatly as possible, to stacks upon stacks on the floor against the wall. "Forgive me I am…working on something of a project." She doesn't elaborate. And it gives her an excuse not to look at the reporter as she busies herself with it. "Yes." For a moment that seems like it's going to be the only response to Sawyer's last. Though she does add after a pause, "The military police are…umm…handling the investigation, I do think. I know not quite how it is progressing." She's quite obviously handling it as little as possible.
Sawyer unshoulders her tote, letting it slide to a newly cleared off portion of Cidra's desk. Of course, she takes the awkward pause as an opportunity to nosily glance down at the paperwork to see if she can decipher any of it before it's wisked away. Old habits die hard, afterall. "Does that include investigating the misconduct of fraternization?" There's slight tightening in Sawyer's jaw, and then she rolls it away with a shrug of her shoulders before she starts to unpack a bottle and two coffee cups from her burden. "Sorry. That's not what I want to talk about, and I'm sure you feel the same way. Frak it all for one night, yeah?"
Cidra snorts softly as she settles her papers. It's a rueful sort of sound. "In the grand military scheme of things, fraternization is a misdemeanor. It musses with your judgment. Do not get me wrong. I do not take it lightly. But…men and women are men and women. Things…happen. Generally, the punishment is to be told to knock it off and take a cold shower by one's irritated superior." Still, she sighs heavily. "The rumors are getting around, then? I had some hopes that would stay between Money Shot and myself. Anyhow. Use my chair if you like." Cidra, for her part, does not bother with a chair. Yet. The first thing she does is unlace her boots and take them off, settling them against the wall. Idly wriggling her stocking feet. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't smoke. It means I couldn't." Sawyer drops heavily into Cidra's chair, skittering it backwards a few inches in a noisy manner. Grace was apparently checked at the door. As the CAG shucks her shoes, she does likewise, using the toe of her feet to kick off her impractical high heels. They clunk to the floor heavily, and she tucks her feet up in the chair with her. "So. I never got you a birthday present." She waggles the bottle of alcohol in offering, apparently done with the mention of Sitka. At least for the time being. Perhaps she has another agenda, or would rather keep conversation light for now.
"I shall consider this a belated one. Only one person got me a proper one after you had betrayed my confidance, anyhow." Not that she sounds particularly put out about it. That last is muttered as Cidra searches around in her drawers. And withdraws something wrapped in soft tissue paper. She unwraps it to reveal…not a cigarette. Well, at least it resembles more a hand-rolled joint than tobacco. Who knows what she's cobbled into that thing, really. She holds it lightly between her fingertips as she sits. Not in a chair. She settles herself atop her desk, crosslegged. "I have cups on the back shelf, actually," she gestures with her joint to the tin cups by her carafe. She's going to light before imbibing, apparently.
"That. Isn't a cigarette." It's a point of fact, not an accusation. Sawyer reaches behind her to nab the tin cups, dragging them over by a crook of her finger. "You're sure you locked the door right? And there are no witnesses hiding in the air ducts and we're operating under the strictest of confidences right now? The real kind, I mean. Not like the birthday slip thing." The journalist assumes the answer to all of that is yes, "If so, you better share." The bottle clanks against the rim of the tin cups as Sawyer apportions some of the clear liquid to each. There's no telling what it is as the bottle was bereft of a label, but it smells strong enough to strip the paint of the deck. "So who was it, that gave you the gift?"
"Very observant. Do they train for that in reporter school?" Cidra asks wryly. As she lighting up. The heady smell of chamalla, if one knows about such things, is easily identifiable. She inhales long, holding it, and then letting it out slow. "Mmmm…" She spends some time enjoying the inhale before adding, "It is Sagittaron. Quite…potent." Of which she approves. "We are locked in, Miss Averies, and I shall not be on duty again for a good, long while." The question about her gift-giver is not answered. She sniffs toward the bottle instead. "Wherever did you get…that?"
Sawyer looks to the roll for a good long second while she pauses, as if deciding whether or not to take it from Cidra's fingers. She is, afterall, damn near on the campaign trail and now has a political agenda and a public image to think about. Good thing they're not public. When in Rome, and all that jazz. Sawyer reaches out to pinch the end of the it, before easing back to her chair. At first all she does is breathe in the poignant smell from the wisp of smoke curling up for them end. "Our raid at the Emporium was more fruitful in some areas than others. I traded a tube of lipstick for the entire bottle, so don't wrinkle your nose. I gave up Sunset Red for this. So what do you know about Kal Trask?" The question is an odd switch of topic, but Sawyer just nonchalantly takes a drag of the chamalla while waiting for an answer.
Cidra is good about passing after she's puffed. Say what you will about the CAG, but she has good manners. Which apply to her weed as well, it seems. While Sawyer's working the joint, she investigates the booze. It is sniffed. And sipped. Speculatively. She blinks and coughs. "Smooth." It is not. "Do they mass market moonshine on Aerilon? That seems…like an oxymoron." A pause at the question. "Bootstrap?" Call sign before actual name. "Quite a lot, professionally. Of the personal, less so. But we have served together long. I knew him back when he was enlisted, actually. When I was a squadron leader on the Battlestar Aegean, he was still working the Deck. Fine technician. Good touch with the Raptors. I was most surprised to see his name when I got the roster here, at least wearing officer blue. Pleasantly surprised, albeit."
Sawyer holds her breath for a long moment, and when she exhales it's punctuated by a cough. Expert, Sawyer is not, at least not since her younger days. She makes a swipe at her watering eyes with the curve of her index finger, then hands the joint back to Cidra. "How did he get a callsign like Bootstrap anyways?"
Cidra gets a rather cackley chuckle out of Sawyer's coughign with the joint. She reclaims it, inhales and holds it, holds it, holds it…puff. Out a smoke ring. She watches it disperse in the air of her office, smiling with some pride. "Did they not teach you anything in college, Sawyer?" she quips. Another rich chuckle at the callsign question. "No, no, no, no, no. A pilot never tells another pilot - or ECO's - callsign story. That is sacred. Though in his case…former enlisted turned officer…well, I do not think it hard to guess. *Nobody* guesses right why I am called Toast." She cackles again, and puffs some more - rather pointedly - before offering it back.
Sawyer huffs a piece of hair out of her eyes, "Some friend you are. I'm never going to get a leg up on him, if I don't find out that particular piece of intel. So much for my social life." She eases down a bit in the hair, so the back of her neck is resting on the rise of the chair. "My uneducated guesses where he either pulled himself up by the bootstraps, or is tough enough to eat boot leather. He didn't seem reactive to either. And I belonged to a boring sorority, centered around libraries and dark rooms. And if you laugh, I'm going to hide dirty socks in all your clean laundry so you'll never get the smell of toe jam out of your duty clothes." She hitches her bare foot on Cidra's desk, next to the woman's knee, and rocks the chair she's in. "Toast…toast…no, that'd only work if you got a really good tan…"
The 'pulled himself up by his bootstraps' guess gets the oh-so-slightest of nods from Cidra. "The former is where I always assumed it came from, though I confess he has not told me the story in full. Well. He has never heard how I got mine, either." She smiles. "As for me, I was smoking one of those…" A gesture to her joint. "…with some of my fellow flight trainees and we set something afire. Do not spread it around. Or I will have to kill you." It's a joke. Probably.
There's a small chuckle from Sawyer, of course the info that Trask went from enlisted to commissioned may or may not have been something that the Journalist knew. "It was an easy conclusion, seeming how the type of life broke out of, to get where he is today. Though I think originally it was meant derrogatorily as a Callsign. I'll just pretend I know, that should rankle him enough for my purposes." Sawyer toys with the tin cup for a moment, before finally taking a sip, albeit a dainty one. "So, Toast had to do with getting toasted and toasting something. Nicely done. Good to see you're still living up to your Callsign, though, I do hope we'll leave the pyro alone for now. I can't afford another visit to the brig, it might seriously harsh on my political efforts."
"Kal is what we call a 'mustang,' yes," Cidra says. Slipping into first names now. Maybe intentionally, maybe a product of her smoking. She sips more at her drink, which causes slightly less hacking now that she's mellow. "Went through enlisted grades before OCS. For most, it is a mark of pride. And, frankly, I generally prefer them. They tend to know their business and not muss with the unimportant things." As for toasting, she winks. "Why do you think I did move my papers? Political efforts?" Blink, blink.
Sawyer shifts her drink, mostly untouched, to her left hand so she can reach back out with the right to beckon for the drugs again with a little flick of her fingers. "It's what I wanted to talk to you about the other night, actually. Before Sofia wandered in about haunted heads and before everyone's world fell apart for a few star's spell following Ibrahim's death…I'm looking to rebuild the Civilian government. Not all in one go, mind you, or soon for that matter. But I think it's something that we need to start working towards. The military has it's hands full will just trying to protect us all. They shouldn't be tasked with the headache of managing all of us as well."
Cidra leans over her desk to pass Sawyer the joint again. Returning to her drink. Sip, sip, sip. Yeah, it's easier now. "Ibrahim…yeah…" More drinking ensues. She blink-blinks again up from her cup. "A civilian government? Like…with a president and a quorum and podiums and…things?"
"Like I said, maybe not right away. It's something we'll have to ease into. But committees to handle housing arrangments, the distribution of goods, the education of the minors. Do you realize it's been nearly six months since we've been virtually homeless and aimless? While I have no doubt the Military is doing a bang up job of keeping the peace, it's time we ease out of Martial law, at least in the sense that the people have to start being responsible for themselves. Sitka's death was the last straw, at least for me." Sawyer quiets, saving her breath to draw again on the joint. In the lull, the paper crackles softly while it burns away and turns to flaky ash.
For a moment, Cidra just looks at Sawyer. With rather large, rather sad cloudy blue eyes. Though she's mellow enough now to be removed from the worst of that. Definitely not inscrutable. Just kind of staring in a mellow sort of way. "You know what I think?" she asks. "I think…I think that's a *great* idea." She points at Sawyer with a somewhat wavery finger. "You should totally do this. Totally. Completely. And get a podium. Government people on the videos always had podiums. I have a podium. It is very good for making people pay attention to you. It is not here. It is in the Ready Room. But it is mine."
Sawyer actually has the audacity to blush. For all the reactions in the known universes, perhaps that isn't the one she was expecting to receive. She ducks her head, fidgeting with a button on her blouse before she just up and decides to untuck it completely from her trousers, relaxing. "Yeah, well. It's not going to be easy, podium or no. I'm receiving a lot of friction already, most claiming we're not ready for that kind of move, but. Five hundred plus civilians really need /some/ sort of management other than a man with a gun telling them to go here and do this, you know? They need a vote, they need a say, and they some sort of guidance in order to do the voting and the saying with any sort of knowledge. But this is what I want to do. Some people say that videographer Angelica was down in the Hangar Bay damn near trying to incite a riot with her commentary during Sitka's attack, as if just trying to get it on film as some sort of sensationalism. That's just…not who I am, anymore. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm still a journalist at heart. But I think it's high time I make the story, instead of just reporting it."
"Barely room for them all down there now. That nice girl…the blind one? Rose? Yeah. That is it. She was talking of finding more space for them. I was helping her. Me and Willows-Cavanaugh and that deckhand…the one with the *nice* arms…Mister Damon! Yes. Yes, he is built quite well. That is it. I should tell her how the search for a freighter for housing is going, I suppose. I do not know. I have not been to the starboard hangar since…" Cidra trails off. "Did not quite know how I would…what is it like now? I have heard things are…tense." Blink blink. "Does this creature have 'film' of it?"
"So the rumor goes, I haven't had the heart to confirm it or track down a copy of the video." Smoke curls out of Sawyer's parted lips, her gaze focused on some place between them both, in the void of time and space. Shaking her head, she scoots forward an bit to hand the joint back to Cidra. "Rose might actually be one of my greatest hurdles. It might have just been the tension of the situation, but she seems happy the way things are now. Real go with the flow kind of girl, that one. Make love not war, sort of things. I'm not sure she's prepared for the waves that restarting a government will create. So nice arms is what floats the CAG's boat, hmm?"
"I will so cut that bitch," Cidra says. As firmly as one can while working their way to stoned. She pours herself another drink. The mix is odd, and she will probably be the worse for it, but it seems like a good idea now. "The video-graph-whatever, I mean. Not Rose. Rose is not a bitch. She is very nice." She nods, as to arms. "Hands, actually, but it is all part of the same…component. Pretty eyes and good reflexes…cannot ask for more. Waves?" Her conversation is a wandering thing. "Phah. The way things are cannot last. That, at least, should be most clear now."
It's a startled thing, Sawyer's laugh, as if she's not expecting it to bubble forth out of her throat like a coarse, melodious thing that comes from deep in the gut and kicks the remaining smoke out of her lungs. "Did you honestly just say you'd cut a bitch?" Sawyer actually has to set aside her mug or risk spilling it all over her expensive suit when the laugh boils down to a fit of giggles.
"I *will* if she is going to dishonor Ibrahim's memory like that," Cidra says. Firmly but languidly. "Do not laugh at me. I am tough. I went through basic training. They made me shoot things with, like, a gun. Like…targets. It was very hard. And they teach you how to cut bitches. Well, they do not call it that. And I have never actually done it, really. Cut a bitch, I mean. You know I have never actually been in a fist fight in my life?" Blink blink at Sawyer. "Have you? What is it like? Did you cut anyone?"
Sawyer rubs at her mouth, trying to wipe away her smirk. "I'm not laughing at you, just your choice of words. And Angelica deserves much, if nothing more than the revocation of her security and press clearances. People like her make it hard for people like me to do our jobs. One thing she hasn't learned, is when it's time to put down the camera and intercede." Sawyer wipes tears from the corners of her eyes, but from the up and down rise and fall of the conversation, it's hard to say where that moisture sprung in the first place. "I was in one just a few weeks ago, when someone accused Sergeant Constin's late wife of being a Cylon, remember? You were trying hard not to give me a fistbump while I was in lock up, for fear your boys would get the wrong impression. Of course, I didn't actually throw any fists, I just subdued an MP until the fight was over."
"Oh, yes. You were involved in that, were not you? It did not look like any bitches got cut during that one, though. Although, my Bubbles did almost break a Marine's groin." Is that a touch of pride in Cidra's tone. Perhaps. "Airy fairies they call us. Well. Nothing airy about that, I will tell you what." She blinks at teary Sawyer. Her own eyes getting misty. For…no discernable reason. But she sniffles nonetheless. "Did you know she got married? Bubbles, I mean. Not the video-whatever. But, do not tell. She wants to keep things private for now. Strictest of confidence." Heh.
"Yeah?" Sawyer clears her throat and sits a little higher in her chair, as if trying to clear away some of the cobwebs that the drugs are tangling around her brain. "What is it about people and secret weddings lately? You'd think it was something to be toasted and celebrated. Like Birthdays. The people need those little boosts in morale that those blessings bring. Ah well, who am I to judge. Tell her congratulations on the down low for me. I'm assuming she got hitched to that handsome devil I was in lock up with? That Devlin fellow. Good for them. You know, they say there is always a rash of three things when life gets rough: marriage, suicide, and pregnancies. Guess we've got scores of all of them."
"My birthday was fun," Cidra murmurs. "Well, my after-birthday, after you had told me secret. I am way better at carrier landings if I am not drunk. At least, I was at twenty-four. I have very good reflexes. I am nimble." She raises her free hand to kind of swipe her fingertips at the air. From a reflex standpoint, it's not particularly impressive. "Yes. Mister Devlin. She calls him Abs. Because he has a six pack of them. I am not letting that be his callsign, though. No. No. *That* teaches you nothing." She nods. "Yes. It was nice. They do seem happy. My Flasher is getting married, too, soon. I am glad. It is nice. Everyone should have someone to…something."
Sawyer gets solemn at the last, looking into the depths of her tin cup for a long moment. "Yeah. They should." She swirls the liquid within it, then decides to merely set the entire cup aside. A smile gets plastered to her lips, an easily transparent thing, but she's making an effort at least. "Six pack, huh? Now /there/ is something everyone should have in their lives. Preferably on their men, but you said you're a hand gal? I suppose there is something to be said for manual dexterity in the bedroom." Cue brow waggle.
"Yeah…" Cidra drinks some more. Gulp. A little wistful. Though she unsombers some at the question, chuckling low. "That is the point. What good is being pretty if you do not know what to *do* with any of it? Strong hands. Nice eyes. Woman needs no more. Are you going to run for president-of-whatever?" She's going somewhere with this. "If you pick a man as your running mate, please do make sure he does not have those beady little rat eyes. That is why I did not vote for President Adar. Also, his economic platform. There was also that."
"Lack of beady eyes, check. Actually, I'd have to be nominated for the position first, so I have to humbly say that decision is not up to me. Though you have to admit…President Averies does have a ring to it." Sawyer shifts to her feet, the minutes having some how wiled away into hours that she's spent holed up with the CAG, and the fun has to end at some point. "Strong hands, nice eyes. Not a bad set of criteria." She goes to give Cidra a hug, and with the drugs coursing through her veins, it's a little closer and lingers a little longer than it otherwise might. If the CAG doesn't pull away, the journalist cups one hand at Cidra's ear and neck, drawing her cheek to a quick kiss from the Journalist. "Thank you. We should do this more often."
"I will totally vote for you," Cidra says. Hugging Sawyer back. Tightly. The kiss earns a blink, but a smile. "On Gemenon we kiss on the lips. And yeah. We should. This was a good idea."
Sawyer draws back at Cidra's words, then quickly obliges with a chaste kiss on the lips. "Completely off the record." The Journalist winks, then collects her shoes so she can slip out, leaving the bottle and Cidra behind.
Cidra kisses back. There's nothing particularly romantic about the gesture. Lips are closed, no feels are copped. It has a sororal, and almost ceremonial quality to it. "Completely. Mmm. I will stay here for awhile, I think," she says, remaining seated on her desk. Contemplating her office. Eyes flit up to her wooden owl. Which still watches her.