PHD #491: Irrelevant
Summary: Trask visits the suspected Cylon model Four in the brig. Whether or not he's right about her proves to be irrelevant. (Thanks to Constin's player for NPCing Parry!)
Date: 02 Jul 2042 AE
Related Logs: The Colonel Pewter March (when Trask and Parry first and last met); Whittled Down By Small Cuts (Red is on Trask's blacklist); The Lady Doth Protest Too Much (a heavily drugged Trask blurts to Cidra his suspicion that Parry is the number Four hiding in the Fleet); Article 106a (the CMC detains Parry)
Parry Trask 
Officer's Brig - Deck 6 - Battlestar Cerberus
These pair of cells are roomier than one might expect. Each one is provided individual access by a door at the front, located on the other side of the room from the hatch. Each one essentially an armored glass cage, this area is walked and guarded by Marines day and night. Privacy not being a huge concern for prisoners, inside the cell is a single bunk and toilet in full view with nothing else. All visitors must sign-in with the Marine at the desk. Cameras are located at the entrance and on the cell itself, everything recorded onto disk in the Security Hub.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear
Post-Holocaust Day: #491

These pair of cells are roomier than one might expect. Each one is provided individual access by a door at the front, located on the other side of the room from the hatch. Each one essentially an armored glass cage, this area is walked and guarded by The Officer's Brig compartments are under heavy guard. Posted marines and a regular patrol of the corridor keep the high profile occupants of the bulletproof glass cages under constant surveillance, to say nothing of the cameras. Once Kal Trask has gone through the standard rigmarole of checking weapon, signing in and being countersigned by the MP on duty, he's escorted to the outside of Officer's block cell number 4. Within sits a rather dejected Deidre Parry. Her uniform blues have been folded and sit in one corner, the yeoman sitting in her boots, blue trousers and tanks.

The first and last time Kal Trask met the redhead calling herself Deidre "Red" Parry was the 7th of August in 2041 AE. What transpired in that brief interaction at one of then Colonel Pewter's triad tourneys was enough to leave a lasting impression of a negative kind. This is not unusual considering the misanthropic inclinations of the SL, but something about the way he was rubbed the wrong way well and truly rubbed him in a way that set him to thinking that something was very wrong. Nearly a year later, it appears that there is finally confirmation for his suspicions.

Nonchalantly, the man leans against a wall opposite to the bulletproof glass of the yeoman's cell. "For what it's worth," is the equally nonchalant opener, "they should've brought you in ages ago, so kudos to you for lasting this long."

Parry glances up, posture instinctively improving as- however casual his manner- Trask is known as an officer. "All due respect, sir: that's not worth much." Shoulders rising with a steadily drawn breath, the red head asks evenly, "Is there something you need, Captain?"

"Need? No. I need very little." Spoken with the matter-of-factness (and somewhat pointed pride) of someone who came from nothing and learned how to make-do. "I mainly just came here to gloat. Everyone needs a hobby, right? And it's not like I haven't earned a bit of downtime." Workhorse that he is.

The answer causes a curious frown to bend Parry's eyebrows. However casual Trask behaves, the prisoner has lapsed back into professional comportment. "To gloat, sir?" She echoes. After a moment's pause, Parry adds, "I don't suppose you need me for that, so you will pardon me, I hope, if I do not have much to say in response."

"Yeah. Y'know: gloat," Bootstrap blithely continues. "To contemplate or dwell on one's own success or another's misfortune with smugness or malignant pleasure." Beat. "Gloat. And, no — again — I need very little. Your presence isn't necessary, but it somehow enriches the experience." Yet he does not appear exalted with any sense of triumph. He doesn't even seem to be particularly enjoying himself, which may or may not account for a faint tick of irritation at the corners of his damnably expressive eyes.

"Hmm," Parry muses, nodding once to the offered explanation. Her own expression has been composed into a reserved and neutral mien as Trask speaks. "Very well. Proceed, sir." Sitting on the cell bed in the same way she would sit in a corner chair during meetings: knees together, feet crossed at the ankles, straight backed.

This accommodating behavior actually conjures a small smile of genuine humor. "That might actually take the fun out of it were I having fun. Although, knowing me, probably not. I'm very good at amusing myself." Case in point, Trask moves on to another game. "So, what's your story? You the hot sister no one takes seriously so you work extra hard to prove yourself? Or are you more… what do they call it?" The way he looks off in the manner of someone combing their memory may or may not be theatrics. He does, for certain, snap his left fingers in a way that results in his index finger pointing at Parry when he tacks on, "The Hero. Overachieving. Being little miss perfect. Conscientious to a fault."

"It has been my observation, sir, that people have one of two reactions to not being taken seriously," Parry voices evenly. "They affect a manner of disregard, acting as if they care for nothing," a dip of her head to Trask, "Or, they maintain a professional manner, and do their job as best they can. I am one of the latter, sir. You have the luxury of smirking and jesting on duty without your fellow officers secretly considering you a whore, Captain. I do not."

"They just openly tell me I'm an asshole," he relays with an impudent smile. "Which, more times than not, is a fair call." Kal has no problem copping to his shortcomings. The redhead's intimation doesn't appear to strike any nerves, though, so perhaps her assessment isn't accurate. "And smirking and jesting really isn't behavior one attributes to whores. The way you brush against people, or linger, or countless other things you do is probably why others assume you're a skank. The way you blushed when you saw the ante I brought the CAG, though, is more indicative of a prude, which would make you a tease. Which, really, is far worse. There's a certain honesty in being a whore, but it's not like it's within your parameters to be honest, is it?"

"I suppose our opinions of proper female behavior will have to differ, sir," Parry returns evenly at the crass talk from Trask. At that last, however, she draws a slow breath. "I'm not a liar, Captain. Gloat and jest as you like, sir, but I'm not a liar, and I'm not a machine."

"I don't really have a problem with liars who admit to being liars," Trask notes before breezing on through with, "And, yes, I realize that's a bit of a paradox but that makes it no less possible. If someone's gonna be a self-righteous douche, or hold some double-standard, they should cop to it. I can respect the honesty. And, really, I guess that's my main beef with you skinjobs: you're a bunch of sanctimonious hypocrites. Me? I know I'm frakked-up and flawed. I admit it, though, and that already puts me ahead of a lotta people who can't or won't cop to their own crap." That said, he points out, "I never said you were a machine. What the frak you are," and by you, he means skinjobs in general, "physiologically speaking, I have no idea. It's also irrelevant. I'd think no better of you if you were one-hundred percent human." Spoken like a true misanthropist.

"I am not a skinjob," Deidre voices with the first slip in her even professionalism surfacing with the statement. "What I am physiologically is a human being from Caprica City. If you are determined to dislike me for my origins, you are free to do so, sir." Parry returns with a short sniff.

Unfazed as ever, Bootstrap blithely admits, "Sweetheart, whether or not I dislike you for your origins — which, by the way, I do — or your personality — which I also do — is not a factor in this. If it were, the TACCO would be keeping you company." At which point the irreverent Taurian presses off the wall and cranes his neck just enough to get good and centered on the security camera, into which he informs the monitoring MPs, "Feel free to quote me on that."

And then it's back to Parry. "Maybe you're one of those sleeper agents. If so, it really sucks to be you." And that, actually, is sincere if the trace elements of conflicting emotions in his eyes are any indication, for Kal Trask is actually a compassionate person somewhere well past the miasma of his own personal pain. "For your sake, I hope you're not."

And, just like that, play time is over. The SL's mission to be an insufferable ass is aborted. Perhaps Parry is playing him for a chump, but so much has recently changed in the man's own internal world, it really doesn't matter. The sudden need to not potentially victimize trumps his acrimony and impertinent pride.

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