PHD #131: Nice to Meet You
Nice to Meet You
Summary: While working for the civilian volunteer group, handyman Devlin runs into two pilots— a pilot and an aerialist — on the stairs.
Date: 07 July 2041 AE
Related Logs: None
Davis Devlin Psyche 
It's got stairs to places, and doors to other places.
Post-Holocaust Day: #131

Devlin is heading down the stairs with a few others, carrying what appears to be a toolbox. It seems even more likely to be given that in his other hand, he's carrying a toolbelt, though the various loops and pockets are mostly empty. There are a few smudges of grease and grime on his hands, and one just in front of his ear, but he whistles absently as he meanders down the stairs in the general, if unhurried, direction of the starboard hangar.

Psyche is coming from the port hangar, helmet under her arm, unfastening her flight suit at the neck for some breathing room. She has the wilted and sleep-walking look of a pilot just off a long CAP — at least one where they're nor shot at. Or nearly killed by their own air supply. Or any of the more 'interesting' things that've been known to happen. This most recent patrol's been uneventful, however, if her weariness is any indication. She swings herself around the corner and takes the steps two at a time, despite, hurrying out of impatience rather than excess of energy. As she passes the civilian with the tools, she does a bit of a double-take.

Devlin is a little bit rumpled, in a way that suggests he's been working this morning, but nowhere near as hard as the exhausted-looking pilot approaching him on the stairs. He continues whistling as he walks, reaching up to drape that toolbelt he carries over his shoulder, and in the process noticing Psyche and her double-take. He smiles, wide and friendly, and offers, "G'morning." There's a pause while he eyes the pins on her collar, and visibly attempts to calculate their value before guessing, "Captain?"

Psyche blinkblinks, then bursts out laughing. "As if," she decries, shaking her head. "No. Wow. Juhhhhhst a JiG." She pauses. Huh. That likely requires elaboration. "Lieutenant Junior Grade." Another pause. "Like an ensign with training wheels." She handwaves the whole thing. "Way not important. But — yeah!" She smiles warmly at the young man, the expression easing much of the weariness that etched her features just moments ago. "Good morning."

Just in time, Davis swoops in from above. Well, it's more of a slow clamber down the stairs. Regardless, the puffball redhead overhears and takes on the stiff-spined posture of parade. With three sharp motions she posts next to Psyche and, smiling to the civilian, points between the JiG's collar and her own. "Jay-gee, Ensign. See? Huge difference."

Devlin doesn't quite blush, but he does look chagrined at the error, admitting, "I'm still trying to get them all figured out, sorry. I guess I haven't been doing so well at it after all!" Her good humor draws a continued smile from him, sheepish at first as he echoes, "Lieutenant Junior Grade," and squinting at her pins for a minute before nodding, "Got it." When Davis appears he blinks once, and then squints at her pins as well and nods again. "Huge difference," he agrees, before offering another wide, easy smile, and he sticks out his free hand, first to Psyche, then Davis in turn, "Alex Devlin, pleased to meet you."

"Hee-YOOJ," Psyche agrees, attempting to finger-style Davis's puffball hair with the completely unapologetic familiarity of an older sister or (insert other busybody relative here). "Ginormous." When introductions are offered, Davis and her hair are off the hook — for now. Psyche grips Devlin's hand, firm and forthright. "I'm Psyche. Nice to meet you!"

Davis rises to the occasion with bells on her toes, or at least on tippietoes, nuzzling into the friendly nails. The semi-regular scar-bumps along the upper left rear of her head probably has something to do with that too. Then things formalise, and she takes Devlin's hand in hers with a quick squeeze that fades into a soft hold for a shake or two. "Hi, I'm Davis!" she chirps like a little chickadee.

There's a lot of cheerfulness in this stairwell just now, as Devlin returns the handshakes with a firm grip, his hands big and lightly callused. "Pleased to meet you, Psyche and Davis," he says, shifting the toolbox in his other hand and offering another friendly smile, his default expression, it seems. "Are you ladies… pilots?" He guesses again, nodding at the wings on Psyche's flightsuit.

Psyche leans back against the wall of the stairwell to let traffic pass, nodding amiably. "Sure are. Well, I'm a pilot. Davis is a super-duper, fancy-schmancy aerialist." She flashes a grin at the red-capped chickadee. "But we both do it in cockpits." Nodnodnod. She takes a breath, about to follow up with — nah. But. Maybe. She hesitates a moment more, squinting at Devlin a touch, "Uhm… okay, weird. But… are you a model?"

Davis lets out a bubbling laugh at the fulltimer, one that brings the back of a hand to her mouth. "I'm just in it for the uniforms," she smiles, flashing a quick wink. Psyche's question brings a change to her features; the look she gives up and down Devlin's frame isn't one of hunger but more… discernment or calculation. It's business.

"An aerialist?" Devlin's brows rise in interest, "I was thinking of doing that, once. Ended up flying a frieghter instead, didn't quite get the funds together to modify the plane enough." He grins, chuckling at Psyche's words, and Davis's wink, but then blinks at that eventual question from the blonde pilot. He looks just for a second like a deer caught in headlights crossed with a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and his ears redden faintly as he nods, "Uhh, yeah, I did a bit of that here and there."

Psyche snaps her fingers and points at Devlin, beaming. "I knew I recognized you! You did runway for Archimedes Lang's spring line at Caprica City Fashion Week, didn't you?" She sighs, rubbing her right temple as she recollects, as though she has a headache. "Frakking Archie and his breakfast gigs. FAR too early for decent human beings…" She explains to Davis, "The designer was brilliant but a complete teetotaller — no drugs, no drinking, no fun — so he put on all his shows in the morning to punish those of us who'd been out until five. Bastard." She turns back to Devlin, excitedly. "But you were the hottest thing that season! What happened to you?"

"I know who Archie frakkin Devlin is!" Davis wheezes, about when it's time for Devlin to speak up again. The rest of the delay is spent with eyes the bulging like zeppelins and an impact crater for a jaw.

Devlin smiles a crooked, sheepish smile, toe of his (poorly cared-for, designer) boot scuffed briefly against the floor as he glances down and then nods, eyes slipping off to the side for a second, "Yeah, I was in that one." He looks back to laugh, nodding, "I mean, it wasn't just to punish the audience, you know. Nobody enjoyed that but him. He was the one that did all the feathers, right?" he kind of gestures as if feathers are coming out of his neck, making a bit of a face and comments simply, "Itched." At the question, he shrugs. "Had some issues with the agency, had to do some other stuff for a month or two and happened to be making a delivery here when the attack happened." Davis's bug-eyed response draws a quick sideways glance, very faintly wary.

"Alex," Psyche murmurs to Davis, glancing at the once-model. "Archie's…" A six-foot-seven, three-hundred pound black man with pink hair. "They look nothing alike. Trust me." She laughs and nods enthusiastically. "Feathers were totally Archie's 'thing'. He was really big on that, designers having a signature… I dunno if 'gimmick' is the right word, but you know what I mean, right? Gods, the first time we met he was all like, 'You need a 'thing' in this industry, duckie' — I thought he meant a penis. Lulz ensued." She rolls her eyes, then claps her hands and gushes, "Oh, but he did that ONE dress, the wedding gown with the peacock feather train? THAT was magnificent."

"I know gawdammit!" Davis yelps, stamping her foot. "Archimedes-gods-curse-the-whoreson-and-his-family-Lang stole my buckles and almost got me kicked out of uni!" The fireplug smacks fist into palm and darkly mutters with squinted eyes. Among the more audible invectives that makes it through grinding teeth is, "glad he's cosmic dust now, I am."

Devlin grins at Psyche and shakes his head, "Yeah, nothing. Thank gods." He makes another little face about the feathers, scratching absently at his chest at the memory, and then laughing at Psyche's words and replying, "If I remember the guy right, he might've said something like that." He chuckles a little, half to himself, and then shakes his head slowly at the gushing, apologizing, "I… don't remember, sorry. I kind of just did the menswear, obviously." Davis's outburst gets another wary sideways glance and then a hesitant, "Stole your buckles?"

Psyche shakes her head. "Well, you can't be expected to notice these things, necessarily. You're a boy. BUT! I think I still have a picture of it, somewhere, in my reference files. I was going to steal some of the bodice detail for my own dreh — " She stops, turns to look at Davis, blinking. She tilts her head way to the side, as though viewing the redhead at an angle will somehow demystify her words. "Wow. Sweetie. I…" She rapid-blinks. "Huh?"

Davis glares at both of them, if inadvertently. The spirit of someone else is whom her ire is assailing. "That mnnnnnrgh! My first big design project had a recurring motif of devils and angels, bat wings and feathered wings." Fired up, the redhead points to each palm in turn to show the difference. "And after I turn it in what do I see in the issue of Fashion Bastion? MY angel buckle, except with a toootally unnecessary amount of detail that absolutely distracts from the entire point of the matter. OOH he still makes me mad," she seethes, stamping a foot for emphasis. "I had to spend so much time in front of the damn Dean, the Rottsie commander, my boss…"

Devlin just nods, clearly in agreement that as a boy he can't be expected to notice these things. He shifts the belt over his shoulder, checking that a lone wrench isn't about to fall out of its holster, and then glances at Psyche when she looks at Davis, and then at the redhead as she manages an explanation. "Ahh," he says simply, doing a slow nod like it's all becoming clear now. Then he makes a bid to change the topic, asking, "Say, how about we get out of this stairwell? Maybe go get a drink or something?"

Psyche bites her bottom lip, looking at Davis as though she's a teensy bit worried for the girl's sanity. "Mayyyyybe we're talking about a different Archimedes Lang…" she ventures, however unlikely that might be. She gloms onto Devlin's suggestion with an air of relief. "FanTAStic idea. Let's do that."

"Pleasure meeting you," Davis says after a deep breath to calm herself down. "I think now might be a better time for me to hit the gym." The way her fingers clench and flex over and over, she seems to have the energy for it now if nothing else.

Devlin nods slowly at Davis, and puts on another friendly smile, nodding, "Alright. Nice to meet you too!" He turns back to Psyche then, scratching his stubble-y sideburn with a finger, which must be how he got that grease streak on the other side. "So, where would we find a drink, you think?"

Psyche smiles at Davis, making a parting attempt to fix the red-head's poofy hair. "You sure, sweetie? You're welcome to come with." Then to Devlin, shaking her head, "I'm sure you've noticed by now this boat is woefully lacking in lounge and bar facilities. It's sort of BYOB." She pauses, then suggests, "If you wanna give me a chance to shower and change, though, I have some rum I might be inclined to share…"

Davis is sure enough that she's already hustling down the staircase to the twelfth deck. She does flash a parting wave over her shoulder in response, at least.

Devlin watches Davis go for a second, clearly bemused, and then turns back to Psyche and grins, "Sure, that sounds good to me. Where, uhhh… where should I be meeting you?" he asks, glancing at the directory posted on the wall behind him for a second before turning back, brows lifting with the question, "And when? I should—" he glances down at his hands, noticing the grime on the backs for the first time, "Heh, I should wash up a bit myself."

Psyche grins. "Maybe a little," she nods, scrunching her nose mirthfully. "Uhm… Observation Deck? Gimme an hour?"

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