| Luck & Other Disasters |
| Summary: | PVT Trista, CPL Tiran, & SSGT King exchange a few words in the Berthing, with varying degrees of success. |
| Date: | 23 Feb 2041 |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Enlisted Berthings | Deck 6 | Battlestar Cerberus | Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Designed specifically to house a small Marine contingent, this berthing is one of the smallest on the ship. The bunks are arranged in standard formation in the classic over-under configuration and lockers dividing each one. However, the lockers here are a bit larger than most elsewhere on the ship to accommodate the bulky combat gear associated with the security details of the crew that lives here. Tables are spread out for use through the area with their standard allotment of chairs.
Margaret comes in, fresh from the shower it seems, and from slight tremors in her muscles from a heavy workout of some kind. She is toweling her hair, well what there is of it anyway as she steps through towards her bunk, her tread surprisngly quiet and graceful for a woman of her size.
Silas is seated on her bunk, tucked just under the lip of the bunk over hers, slightly in shadow. The lights in her bunk are off, but she's leaned out, curtains open, large sketchbook perched in her lap. She has a pen in hand, and appears to be writing in the middle of mostly covered page, black ballpoint scrawling across what little white paper still shows through various taped in images and photos of Sagittaron. She picks, with her left hand, and a bandaid on her right arm, somewhat absently. Strands of dark hair have slid into her eyes. She glances up as the tall marine passes her. "Corporal." The greeting is soft, but just clear enough to be heard.
"Hey Silas" Meg rumbles in her heavily accented voice as she tosses her towel neatly in her locker, and cracks her neck from side to side. She looks back over her shoulder at the other Marine and offers a brief smile "So 'ow you bleedin settlin' in?" she asks fairly bluntly as she heads over towards your bunk, gunmetal eyes glancing over the sketchbook.
"It's a bed." Silas replies, with a glance up again, after she finishes off a line. She continues to pick the bandaid as the corporal approaches, though her eyes drop back to her sketchbook again. Her arm rests over the page. She makes no move to hide or obscure any of the contents. The print quality of the images is decent, but they're standard prints like you'd get any any cheap corner store. The photography isn't inspired in an artistic sense, but it's well enough as documentary. "It's a ship. It's big, but I'm catching on." And she has a map crib sheet in the back of her sketchbook for if she gets lost. A few hours went into drawing that.
"Just be remembering…" Meg begins with a faintly wry grin as she leans against the wall "…if you manage to get your arse lost, don't ask a frakkin pilot, or we will -never- 'ere the bleedin end of it" she says with a low chuckle "Also got any problems Silas my bleedin door is always bloody open" she says with a gesture towards her bunk and a brief smile "Unless the problem is me, then you go poke at the sarge" she adds as her smile broadens a little.
"I don't see you being the problem, Meg." Silas smiles at that, and reaches up to tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear. She seems a little hesitant to use the Corporal's shortened first name, but does so despite the slight discomfort. "… I would never ask a pilot. I try to avoid eye contact with officers. Sometimes they take it as a challenge, and then it's barking Pvt this and that. Ever since that first time I mistook a Lt. Colonel for a Lieutenant… I was drunk and he was ugly. I wasn't even enlisted then." Sheesh.
Margaret idly rubs a thumb down her chin as she listens in, then chuckles at Silas's comment "Pilots here seem pretty frakkin easy goin'" she says as laughter fades to a smile "Bit too much, so yeah stick to calling them sir and be polite. Show them 'ow real fightin soldiers do it" she says with a faintly wolfish hint to her grin "Also got a real life frakkin celebrity onboard. Dumb fucker seems to 'ave a think for Marines. Dunno if he just likes gettin 'is bloody arse kicked or what, but every time we meet the prick asks me to frakkin spar" she says with a wry snort and a shake of her head.
"Yeah?" She considers a moment when Meg mentions easygoing pilots. She chews her bottom lip briefly, then glances up again. "Huh. Man who likes to get his butt handed to him, but is a movie star the rest of the time. Maybe he doesn't like it when people say yes." She reaches up to itch behind her ear with the end of her pen. "So how many times did you beat him so far? He ask you to keep the bruises off his pretty face?"
Margaret shakes her head with another smile "Well last time I was on duty, full frakkin combat rig at the bleedin guy asks me to spar then and there" she says with a snort flaring her nostrils "And 'ell if I marked up 'is pretty bloody face the brass would 'ave my arse for breakfast, lunch and frakkin dinner. It's Alexander Aurelia by the bleedin bye"
Silas is seated on her bunk, just on the edge, legs drawn up and crossed in a half lotus. A huge black sketchbook is open across her lap, right arm across it, pen in hand. "Alexand — isn't that the guy with the big forehead and the cute butt?" The two marines seem to be discussing the character quirks of some actor. "Nothing says I like you like a fist to the kidney."
"Yeah, 'ee likes 'is bleedin war films" Meg says with a roll of her eyes. Leaning back against the wall she folds her heavy arms across her chest and shakes her head "Seems 'ee 'as somehow talked 'is way into an ensign's slot as a frakkin pilot. Guess it makes for good bleedin PR or some shit" she says with a brief shrug.
Silas considers the stream of information for a moment. It's not the volume so much as the accent she takes a moment to get around. "Wait, he's an actor pilot Ensign? Aw, man." She shoves her pen into her mouth, and gnaws on the plastic. She fidgets slightly, fingers tapping against the upper edge of the sketchbook, which she shortly flips closed. It's not even 2/3 of the way full and the binding is already straining against the various papers and ephemeral taped and glued in. "PR." She doesn't seem to know what to make of that. The idea is kind of alien to the young Saggie.
Margaret shakes her head wryly and offers a shrug of her heavy shoulder "Just a bleedin guess. Shit like that is way above our bleedin pay scale" she admits readily. Pursing her lips she blows out a soft breath and considers "Well 'ee did star in a frakkin boxing movie. Maybe 'ee will kick my arse" she says with a faint smirk on her face.
The dark haired Pvt reaches up and touches a shiny lock of hair that's fallen across her cheek. Silas drags her short nailed fingers up and stuffs the hair behind her ear, though it's quick to slip free again when she turns her head. Her dark eyes flick to the hatch briefly, then she sets the large book aside, tucking it up by her pillow. Her bunk is free of almost all clutter, shelf empty save a single vanilla scented, and unlit votive candle. All of her belongings must fit neatly into the locker. "I wouldn't bet any cubits on that outcome." She means the actor winning, of course.
The bulkhead door finds itself suddenly opening to allow a newcomer to this conversation. Even if one had never met Staff Sergeant Jeremiah King (or did not know him from the chain of command briefing), it would be obvious he was in charge of something. And is probably way too comfortable in his boots. He has that sort of walk that Corporals are starting to learn and Sergeants are close to mastering. It says 'get out of the way, private' subliminally, even though his face carries a blank expression. He stops and starts to survey the bunks, maybe now just noticing just how many females were under his command now.
"Knowing my bleedin luck 'ee frakkin would and I would -never- live it down" Meg replies dryly to her squadmate with a wry snort. About to say more she pauses as King enters, straightening just a little she offers him a polite nod "Sarn't" she rumbles by way of introduction.
Silas is nothing if not adaptable. As the SSGT crosses the threshold into the berthing, Pvt. Trista stops picking at the bandaid on her opposite arm. Dark brown eyes flick over large man, from the shiny black boots, to the top of his shiny black head. Since his attention is already directed her way, he may notice, and it may look like a club-scope. She has yet to master the art of a single glance to size up an opponent. Her eyes eventually snap back to King's eyes. "What aren't wha — Oh — Sarge." She catches herself just in time. "Hi." And then promptly fails. Er. Her eyes flick away, and she holds very still for a moment. We do not say 'hi' to our superiors. And yet.
Everyone's favorite platoon sergeant raises an eyebrow as he is addressed. "Corporal, you complain about your luck a lot. Is this a genuine concern you have? Do I have to find you some kind of witch doctor to cast a spell and make it all better?" Has he been planning that one? Maybe. Probably not. Now it's time for Private Trista. "And Private Trista…" He pauses a moment at that and simply says, "Hello."
"Current theory is that in some past life I did somethin bleedin serious to piss off one of the Lords. And they are frakkin takin it out on this one sarge" Meg replies with a faint wry smile curving one side of her mouth. She shrugs one shoulder easily as she glances around "Still all bleedin works out in the end, and well may as well frakkin joke about it yeah sarge?"
There's a moment of consideration from the private, and she finally takes up the pen from where it fell, and shoves it through the ponytail she wears. Her hands drop again to her lap, and she regards first Meg, then King. She reaches up to rub a hand over her face. That probably wasn't to hide a small smile at the 'witch doctor' thing, but it could have been. There is no trace of humor to reveal that, if so, when her hand drops just a moment later. It's clear from the way Silas watches Meg's mouth when she speaks, she's trying to decipher that accent in places.
King nods slowly, "May as well. Just don't let any of that rub off on any of the rest of us, eh?" He then seems to go off onto a tangent of thought, frowning some as he does. "Hm. Maybe we can also see if we can't work off some of that. You're to go donate blood as soon as possible." Then it's Privates Trista's turn for his attention. "Alright, Private…Tell me who you are."
Margaret flashes a brief grin at that to King "Don't bleedin worry about that, bad luck always falls on me sarge. Leaves the rest of the squad frakkin safe" she declares wryly with a shake of her head "Right you are sarge. Is this to the docs, or just in bleedin general?" she asks deadpan.
Silas' lips part slightly as the Sarge's attention shifts to her, and he asks her a quite unexpected question. Her eyes shift slightly from his shoulder to his eyes, and she blinks just once before she answers. There's a beat of hesitation before her voice catches up with her brain, and the private replies, "I'm just a marine, Sergeant." A marine with toenails painted a neat and cheerful robin's egg blue. She fights the urge to glance at Meg, or react to the blood thing.
King, of course, responds to Margaret first. "A little of both, Corporal." He winks, making sure there is just a tad bit of mischief. "Frankly, on every ship I've been on there has been a shortage of blood. My plan is to have regular donations from our platoon. Your name came up first." Now it's Silas' turn. He rolls his eyes at her, "Well that tells me that you are definitely fresh from boot, eh?"
Margaret looks down at Silas with a friendly smile that shifts into a faint grin as her attention wanders back to King "So frakkin new she still squeaks when she turns around too bleedin fast Sarge" she informs him mock-gravely "Anyway right you are Sarge, will go open a vein for them soon" she says more seriously.
"It was the 'just', wasn't it?" Silas considers that for a moment, her dark eyes dropping to her hands, as if she could find the answer there, then glances up again. She glances over to Meg, and smiles slightly at the squeaky turn comment. Her eyes return to King, where they rest while she speaks. "The rest is just window dressing. From Adiv on Sag. Raised by a Tauron mechanic. S'my accent is all frakked." Her hands resume fidgeting. "Haven't had a smoke in twelve hours." That explains the twitchiness. "… and I did most of my own tattoos. It hurt like a bitch." She clears her throat softly. "Now I'm a marine."
If Trista would calm down, she'd probably even get a chance to realize that SSgt King's voice is well…magnificent. "You may be too young to realize this, or just old enough that you have started to forget it, but I have found that the window dressing is part of what makes the window." He looks to a nearby bunk and takes a relaxed seat. He raises his hand dismissively while he speaks further. "And Corporal, thank you for taking that seriously. Not afraid of needles, eh?"
"Bleedin terrified sarge" Meg replies, her rumbling accented voice entirely deadpan as she replies to King, not a trace of a smile on her face. For a few moments at least anyway before she looks down to Silas and quirks a faint smile "Giving up, or just all out Silas?"
Pvt. Trista's lips press together briefly, as if she could still the words with just that action. She watches King for a moment, and then resumes a more normal posture, sitting up a little straighter. She glances very briefly over to Meg at the question about needles. She just avoids a slight eyeshift. Silas slides her hands up the legs of her pants, perhaps searching for a smoke. "Neither, Meg. I swapped 'em into the wrong bag and had they got sent down to storage." Sweet torture, waiting for the support staff to respond to a request for access to storage this soon after leaving port. "… In my house, we didn't so much care for the curtains. You can't see who's coming that way." She thinks for a beat, then notes, "This whole train of symbolism or whatever just got away from me. Gods, does anybody have a smoke?"
King nods, "Good job, Corp, stepping up to go at something you're terrified of just because your platoon sergeant has strange ideas." He nods, obviously already proud of this pretty little Corporal. Now for Private Trista. He seems to feel a need to correct her here. "Corporal. 'Meg' here is a Corporal. Do you understand?" Seems like he would like to nip that before he has to start actually punishing people for little things. "And I have no idea what train of symbolism you are speaking of…I figure that I don't wish to know." And finally…"And you should really think about quitting smoking."
"I will summon up all me bleedin courage Sarge" Meg continues as she heads over to her bunk and lowers herself down carefully on it "My fault her callin' me Meg sarge, off-duty and all. Thought it was frakkin okay. Will make sure it don't 'appen again sarge" she says with a nod to King and Trista.
"I thought about it, Sarge, for twelve really long hours." Trista taps her wrist, which is free of timekeeping device. "It's not for me." She glances over to Margaret, "Apologies, Corporal." The dark haired mini private has no problem turning on a dime when it comes to some suggestions from up the chain. "I'll give it some more thought." Sometime. She reaches up to shove a thumb into her mouth to gnaw the fingernail. She glances over to Meg, but her expression doesn't shift. Her eyes silently transmit a 'thanks' for stepping in front of that low velocity bullet King lobbed her way.
King nods, "And I hope you will be able to summon said courage time and time again, Corporal." He nods then, not even bothering to comment any further on the title/name slip-up. "Well then, Private Trista…I want you to think about this. What if we are under noise and light discipline for more than twelve hours, eh? That's a time that you will be sitting around, unable to smoke. We may occasionally come under some fire to relieve some tension, but likely not, while we are just sitting around waiting for some Saggitaron insurgents to try and take down our little camp. Don't you think it would be valuable to quit soon so that you are not so…jumpy when the time comes?"
Margaret leans back just a litle on her rack. About to say something she stops short as King mentions Sagitaron insurgents and falls silent, folding her hands in her lap and glancing over towards Trista, face expressionless as she guages the other woman's reaction.
King sets up the trap, and Silas falls right on into it. It could have something to do with the mention of Saggie insurgents, a subject that is far, far too close to home. Her hand drops from her mouth. "Sarge, in that case my mind would have something to focus on. Right now, nothing at hand to do with my hands. Sides which, if we was on Saggie, they got no patience, and really like frakkin' explosives. You don't think we're ever going to Sagittaron." Do you? Gods, not that. Her hand goes back to her mouth, then drops into her lap again. Her fingers lace, and she takes a breath.
King nods slowly, "We'll be going wherever the Fleet needs us. Understand that one, private. Understand it and live by it." He chuckles then once again, "And let me tell you…Sometimes being on-planet is just as boring as this."
Margaret looks from King to Silas again, and then relaxes just a little. "I like to feel the bleedin dirt under me feet, wind in me frakkin 'air" she says quietly, then with faint colour on her cheek clears her throat "So are we going to be doin any drills whilst the pilots are off playin sarge?" she asks curiously.
Silas nods to the Sergeant. "I believe it. But after ten years in the littlest backwater town you ever saw, new dirt is still new dirt." She nods to Margaret. "Just so long as I never land in Adiv again, I can be happy where my feet are." She slides out of her bunk, bare feet hitting the floor. She reaches for her loosely laced boots, and shoves her feet in. "If you'll 'scuse me Corporal, Sarge. I gotta hit the head." She jerks a thumb toward the hatch, lingering just a little to get confirmation before she scoots out. It may be off duty, but the boss's boss's boss is the boss's boss's boss.
(FTB due to everyone needing sleep.)