PHD #042: Observations
Summary: Rejn holds court on the Observation Deck. Soldiers get mad.
Date: 9 Apr 2041 AE
Related Logs: None
Rejn Sawyer Lunair Marko McQueen Evandreus Tisiphone 
9 Apr 2041 AE
With a quiet view to the stars, this tends to be one of the more popular 'quiet areas' of the Cerberus. Up front is a small-unseated area for ceremonies or other activities while the seating rises up behind it. Each level rises up behind the one before it, comfortable chairs and couches set up for crewmembers to relax, get some work done or even take a nap. A large armored plate is lowered during Condition One to protect the interior against a breach in the glass.

Since Cerberus' arrival at Parnassus Anchorage, her crew hasn't had terribly much in the way of free time on its collective hands — certainly not enough to while it away gazing at the stars. No wonder, then, that the Observation Lounge is populated only by those officers and enlisted willing to sacrifice hours of sleep for hours of contemplation, keeping to themselves in hushed clusters of olive and grey. The mood in here this late hour is somber and still, informed as it is by the serene starscape stretching past the window as far as the eye can see, and what conversations are occurring are appropriately muted by the plush fabric of the chairs and sofas scattered about the pseudo-stadium seating. It's disturbed only by the quiet scratching of a hatch swinging open and closed — scratching and the quick blast of light from the corridor beyond, hidden as speedily as possible by entering personnel suddenly conscious of the disturbance they're causing.

Sitting alone at the very bottom level is one Allan Rejn, his large frame taking up roughly a seat and a half on the three-person couch smack dab in front of the panoramic view. He's holding a truly epic cigar between the sizeable fingers of his left hand, and wisps of sweet-smelling smoke drift up past his rumpled red tie to catch in the bristles of his moustache.

One such person drifting into the little sanctuary is Sawyer. Not of the military persuasion, she more or less keeps her own hours which leaves plenty of time for things like slacking off. Or at least working how and where she sees fit. It's no wonder that the Journalist has a spiral bound book tucked beneath her arm, as you never know when you need to write an important piece of information down or maybe she's actually intent on working on an article tonight after a rather long furlough. A red piece of licorice is hanging out of her mouth, being idly chewed on while she selects a seat. Seeing a familiar form lounging at the front, she heads in that direction. "Allan." Flop, into a seat she goes, settling just behind him.

Fortunately, being full of hate, weasels and MSG, Lunair sacrifices a few. She may not be /as/ busy as some not being an MP but work keeps her attention too. For now, she has chosen to do a bit of sewing. She has a dark purple scarf and brings her embroidering supplies, a can of fizzy fruit juice and seems to be in a contented mood. She hums softly. Her headgear of choice today is a soft, fuzzy hat probably for comfort. She hums and - is someone smoking? Her nose wrinkles. While curiousity gets cats, jet engines take care of eagles, corporations hire the weasels - Lunair is alas, drawn to couches. She inches over and pauses, noticing Allan and - a new face. Blink. She looks almost funny, in off-duty marine get up, a fuzzy hat and a confused expression. And sewing supplies at hand.

Rejn takes another drag from his cigar, its flickering tip burning an ominous red-orange in the dim lighting of the lounge. His cheeks hollow as he inhales, drawing inwards before relaxing; another bloom of smoke drifts up and out from his lips. "Averies," he grunts, not turning around. Apparently, he recognizes her voice, soft though she attempts to keep it — and his corresponding effort to do the same signals that the atmosphere is sufficiently calming that even he can't bring himself to break it. "Smoke?" The oddly-dressed Marine, being silent, is ignored.

"I've heard there's nothing sexier than a woman smoking a cigar. I beg to differ, the true epitome of sexy is a woman smoking a /free/ cigar." Sawyer, still dressed for her day of work in her suit, leans forward and lets her arm drape over the back of Rejn's couch in anticipation. To the curious bird-eyed marine, she offers a friendly enough smile in welcome, should she decide to settle close by.

If Lunair were a bird, perhaps she'd be a kiwi. Fairly clever, a bit doofy looking but at least friendly. At least unlike a certain parrot, she doesn't shag British reporters' heads. She smiles a little at the cigar comment. "Hello there," She offers to the smile and does settle on a nearby couch. Sewin' time. "Have we meet before?" Pause. She pulls out a small notepad. To anyone's horror, the woman keeps enough postits on her to make a jacket. Stuff like 'kick … soandso' 'lunch at … turn left… bay 3…', directions, names and memos. Yikes. She must have an AWFUL memory. Mercifully unless one considers what happens if she fails to compensate. Hmm. Nope, no names for reporters. She looks sad.

"Heh." A brief, barking sound. "So say we all." Rejn taps his pinky finger against the tip of the cigar to wick off a few stray bits of ash. Burnt fumarella flutters down onto his protruding belly, speckling his pinstriped shirt with flecks of black and grey. Only then does he hand it over, lifting it over his shoulder so the blonde can grab it from his hands, still not looking back. Indeed, his narrow blue eyes seem transfixed by the transcendent vista just a couple of meters away: a billion twinkling stars blinking in time to some rhythm only they can know. The mumbling Marine receives a perfunctory jerk of his head that passes in Rejn's circles as greeting; then, abruptly, in a softened but nevertheless raspy tenor: "Holding up?"

Sawyer has slipped her own notebook beside her, or rather partially tucked under one thigh as if it's a rather precious personal possession merely by the contents of its pages. The cigar is plucked from Rejn's fingers, but she has to jostle it to her other hand so she can offer her right over to Lunair as she asks for an introduction. "If you haven't heard of me yet, consider yourself lucky. I'm like a pox to this ship. Sawyer Averies. Rouge Journalist." There used to be a magazine attached in that introduction, but that went up in ash like the rest of the Colonies. "Well.." Sawyer's cheeks hallow as she takes a puff of the cigar, holding the smoke in her mouth like a champ instead of cycling it through her lungs. "I found a cure for writer's block." That last is in answer, presumeably, to Rejn's question. "You?"

A pause at Sawyer's introduction. Lunair peeeeeeeeeeeers at the woman. She looks confused. Headtilt left. Headtilt right. Squeeent. Hmmm. She just … thinks for a moment. "You don't seem poxy." Pause. "And you seem to be blonde, not rouge," Nod. Leave it to Lunair to get confused. "Unless you mean like- red as in um, shoot, what was the symbolism? I wrote that down somewhere." Sadface. Ohwell. A shrug at that. "I'm Raine Lunair, Lieutenant Junior Grade. One of the Marines. Buuuuuuuut, I'm like, off-duty so I wouldn't sweat that part." A handwave. The purple-eyed Mariine peers at the pair again. "So you both write?" She's sitting near the two with sewing supplies and fizzy fruit juice at hand.

"I write. She reports." Squinted eyes don't leave the constellation they're examining, hidden as they are beneath the tinted lenses of his glasses. "And me, holding up? Well." Rejn gurgles as a bit of phlegm catches in his throat. "I'm not getting laid, but other than that — " His stubby fingers fold into his palm once, twice, three times: an implicit demand to get back from the reporter his precious cigar. "Fat and happy like a peach on the vine." The older man grimaces as he shifts in his couch, his left elbow digging into the soft and overly pillowy armrest, his belt creaking with the strain. "Or the tree," he adds. "Or whatever the fluttering frak sort of thing a peach grows on."

Marko comes ambling into the Observation Deck with a clipboard with a reading light attached tucked under his arm and a bottle of water in his hand. Apparently, the black hair ECO's got a little bit more than stargazing on his mind. Spotting Lunair, he gives a smile and a quick wave, changing course to join her.

A bit of a sway to his walk, but long past the days of sailors on seabound ships, McQueen strolls in shortly behind Marko with a Fleet-issued duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his narrowed eyes pinpointed on the growing expanse of space outside, letting out a light, pointed cough as he does. He keeps walking on towards the 'glass', idly glancing to and fro.

As Rejn debates the origin of the peach, Sawyer leans forward and deposits his cigar back in his fingers. There's a fine haze of smoke collecting above their heads, the smell cloyingly sweet. "You're the /writer/, you tell me." Sure, she takes a little affront to that, but there's a good-natured air about her that means it won't lead to hostility. "Rogue, not rouge…" She gently corrects Lunair. "So not red, but merely like a ship…without port. Hat without a head. Horse without a stall."

Neato constellation! She blinks at Rejn's getting laid comment. Her eyebrows flatten to staright line and she just stares a moment. Ohmy. "Isee. Howunfortunate. It's um, good to see you again annd well." Blinkblink. She just pauses. "Trees. Peaches grow on trees. Working on a bonsai form if I had any seeds," She's a CLOSET NERD. RUN. She smiles at Sawyer a little. Ehehe. "Oh, I see. Um. Well. Some people find their places at different pace is all," nod. At least Lunair thinks so. But at least she's hopeful. McQueen gets a curious, confused look. But then she's distracted! A Marko! Her expression softens. Uh oh. She smiles warmly and waves. "Hello there." Happiness abounds. She has even gotten settled in to embroider.

"Bonsai, huh — and ta, Averies." Back goes the cigar between Rejn's dry lips, their chapped skin peeling as loosened flakes are forced back by its tip. He permits himself another long and luxurious drag, closing his eyes as incoming company lets more light into the room — though not before he observes the faint stain of Sawyer's light pink lipstick on the reddish-brown wrapper of his Caprica Imperial. "You know," he muses, words slightly mangled by the fact that he's speaking and trying to blow a smoke ring at the exact same time. "This is almost like you sticking your tongue in my mouth." His belly twitches a bit as he chuckles. "Just saying."

"Heya, Lunair." Marko replies, taking a seat across from the Marine officer, not seeming to notice or care much that he's now wearing perhaps one of, if not the, goofiest smiles in recent history. "You sewing?" he asks, because, apparently, the presence of needle and thread and so forth isn't a strong enough hint.

Smoke them if you've got 'em. Rattling around in the pouch of his duffel after pulling it open with a slightly audible *zzzzzzziiiiiiiip* sound, McQueen pulls out a half-empty pack of Aquarian King lights. These Cigarettes are the choice of the inhabitants of seedy working-class bars everywhere. Funny fact - they're called Aquarian Kings but actually made on Leonis. Go fig. Pulling out one, he keeps glancing around, propping it in his lips as he walks and fumbles in his pocket for a light, helplessly. For a bit. No dice. Catching Lunair's glance he tilts his head to one side, narrowing his eyes in a greeting, looking past Marko, "Lo." He keeps on though, moving towards, oh, a light! Sawyer and Rejn. Someone else is lighting up. "Scuse me, eh?" He inquires. "Sorry to trouble you, but could you give us a light, yeh?" He adds, with perfect timing, "Please?" He grins his teeth still pressed around the cigarette gently.

"Really? I thought you would have taken that to a much more phallic place. But your, ah, lips are a little rosy pink now. It's a good color for you." Sawyer retorts right back to her fellow QUODEL member, though really, what purpose does that distinction even hold any more? "Just saying." She leans back into the cushions of the couch she occupies, dragging her notebook out from where it's pinned by her thigh. "Room's filling up fast, they must have known there was going to be a sale on sarcasm. Buy one, get acidic humor free." Rejn's the one with the lighter, so Sawyer tilts her head in the rotound man's direction to help aid McQueen.

Oh dear. Lunair is distracted happily by the Marko. She has that sort of doofy look across her face. She's trying to stifle it though, giving her a dazed appearance. The naughty jokes are not helping. She smiles at him. "Yeah, a little. You seem to be happy. Good things happening then?" She peers to the two civilians before looking back to Marko. "Well, I heard that anyway. But - it's good to see you." A pause. McQueen noticed. Lunair smiles politely and nods back. "Hello there." She pauses. "Well, it is a nice place. Sarcasm and phallic references and all. Did I even just say that word?" Her face turns red. More repressed than a nunnery. Ohmy.

Lunair will get no respite from Rejn, whose voice — though quiet — nevertheless is audible even two rows back. "You want me, Averies, all you need to do is murder Mary." Rejn's eyes flash open as the services of his lighter are requested — and after several seconds he fills with slow and owlish blinks, he finally works up the energy to turn in his seat, the hair on his chest poking out from a gap in his shirt where buttoned fabric stretches and twists. His attention drifts past Marko — whose presence is noted with a cursory nod — to McQueen, whose gaze he holds for several more quiet seconds. "Frak," he drawls. "That line was shitty even before the Cylons turned her into a pile of steaming ash." And then, his neck throbbing, he's withdrawing a matchbook from his pocket, which he tosses in a lazy arc to the pallid fellow in front of him. Because only wooden matches preserve the original taste of his Imperial's fumarella blend.

For a few long moments, McQueen just glances at Rejn as the older man gives a probably fair and just assessment of his pick-up skills. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, though, and sometimes a request for a light is just a light. He squints as he carefully studies the man. "Well, I think it's a poorly-kept secret that /I/'m gettin' rusty, sir." He says, reaching forward with his free hand to catch the matchbook. "Cheers, and a thousand thanks." He glances slightly in askance at Sawyer. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am." Grinning with a flash of widening teeth, he goes through the motions of lighting the smoke and tosses the matchbook in an underhanded, gentle lob right back at Rejn, pulling out a drag and starting to glance about the inhabitants of the lounge again. "I suppose I should go back to one of those 'pick up artist how to books.'" He adds with a snort. "You're lookin' well." This last bit was directed again at Rejn. "This here's the nicest place on the ship."

"Yeah, well enough." Marko nods, starting to shed the silly grin, but very, very slowly. "Op last night went down fairly smoothly." he adds, dropping the volume of his voice a little. The portly man in the worn out suit's comment seems to confuse him mightily. "Do you have any idea what that meant?" he asks the Marine. "Cause I am frakkin' confused as hell over here." he chuckles. "And starting to feel really stupid about it." he adds. "How's your head feeling?" he inquires.

Evandreus finally finds a little slice of quality time to go spend with his newest selection from the library— and so, of course, he heads to a spot where he's more or less guaranteed to be distracted from anything like reading by anyone and everyone. Still, he looks game for a go at it, and he hops over the raised threshold of the hatch in something like a high spirit. The Magsie Lady Sawyer catches his eye, first of all, and he lifts the hand with its fingers curled around the page-end of the book in a silent greeting her way before he starts down the steps.

"It meant, kid, that the Cylons murdered my wife, my eight horses, and my four kids." The matches are caught with Rejn's free hand — or at least that was the plan. His reflexes are such that he only manages to tip one edge of the thing, sending it careening off course towards Marko's lap (but not before it nips the edge of Lunair's fuzzy hat in the process). Surprisingly smooth forehead knots up in distaste before he forces them back down. "Light up if you want," he grunts, eyes never leaving McQueen. "Thought they got you too, out on — " His cigar hand is waved in the air, scattering more ash over his twisted form — still contorted so as to give him a view of the folks on the seats above him. "You know."

"Who's he supposed to be tryign to pick up? You are me?" Sawyer asks to Rejn, speaking of McQueen as if he's not even there. At least the pilot gets a friendly enough smile, and likely she's seen him around a time or two as the only civilian still allowed to live in Viper Berthings. They chased that damn actor out of Raptor Berthings some time ago, and now it's just the Journalist sticking around and keeping them all honest. Sawyer is occuping a couch behind Rejn, a notebook in her lap and she's reaching forward to nick another drag off Rejn's cigar if he'll allow. Her hand taps his shoulder expectantly, "Don't worry, I'll honor her," Meaning the dead wife. "Spirit, and save my lustful glances for someone else." Evan gets a little air-kiss in greeting.

"Most pick-up artists are asshats," Lunair assesses quietly. She shrugs. Lunair looks bemused and pained. "I'm sure you're fine if you're polite. This ship is apparently overrun by very pretty women. It's a good PR move I think," She admits and taps her chin. "Most of them are very nice too." Nod. She looks to Marko and nods. She smiles when she speaks to him. Her exprssion is a bit warmer. "I'm glad. And I think it means he'd - well, I don't know who Mary is -" Aw. Now she's confused to. "I think it implies he would like Sawyer's company very much." Sagenod. Nerd analysis of the human mating ritual. She smmiles. "Pretty well. A little itchy sometimes. I'll have my hair back in no time I guess. But it's odd I'm getting used to being able to wear whatever headgear I like." A faintly amused smile. The entering Evandreus gets a wave. Then she blinks as her hat gets nipped with with some matches. It's merely a nip, so she doesn't react much. Still. The talk of dead wives and lustful glances just makes the Marine turn a bit red. Guess who's the last person in the colonies to ever date anything ever. Yup. She looks to Marko. "What cha reading?"

"That thing's getting thrown around like Lasher's wallet at a titty bar." Trevor McQueen replies, with casual vulgarity as he points a gentle point at the matchbook. Pausing a bit, he clarifies, "If the girls are wearin' sheepskin coats." It very clearly looked like he was mulling over this one, and finally decided to let it rip. Tilting his head back sharply, he takes a drag and exhales. "Secretary. Na, remember, my exit on Picon was blocked and it was an unforseeable stroke of luck that I ended up getting mustered in with the Cerberus' forces." There's an easy smile on his face that fades a little. "I wonder about those that didn't make it." And his voice is ever-so-slightlty ratcheted down to sound a touch wistful. "That was a good speech. In any case, good to see you again. It's one surprise after another here. And who's this," He eyes Sawyer as his head turns in an arc, looking at her clothing as if trying to figure out how she fits into the grand scheme of things, "Gracious lady?"

McQueen glances around some more and catches a few others, extending a lazy wave towards Evandreus. Familiarity flashes in his eyes, but not overt familiarity.

Evandreus tromps down alongside Magsie's couch just in time to hear her last, and to catch the air-kiss from her thereafter. Chin tips down and he looks at her askance with a playful slice of grin, "Hey, now, careful where you point those," he requests before going on and flopping down by her, book in lap. Gregor perhaps conspicuously missing, having become the pilot's nigh-constant companion. He returns Trevor's wave with a little smile.

"The speech was a rank and steaming pile of broke-dicked horseshit." Another one of those grunt-slash-chuckles as he, too, gives Evan a wave. "And this — " How convenient, really, that Rejn's waving that cigar around — because just like that, it ends up back in Sawyer's outstretched hand. "This is Averies." To whom he now turns: "He damn well better be talking about you." Bushy brows furrow as his bespectacled face turns back towards the Viper stick. "Queenie knows that if it'd been up to me, he'd never have been born to begin with." Another snort. "Figures that the Cylons would kill all my big-titted secretaries and save him."

Marko picks the pack of matches off his lap and tosses them casually back towards Rejn. "Don't smoke, but thanks for the offer." he adds with a polite nod. Evan's entry is noted with a nod and a slight wave. "Oh, 'scuse me, Ma'am." he adds, spotting Sawyer for the first time. "Didn't mean to ignore you." he says, then gives her a quick nod before turning back to Lunair. "Yeah, that was kind of my take on it, too." he remarks, settling back in his seat. "This? Oh, just some paperwork I need to catch up on. Some ideas, a few schematics, the usual craptacular busy work." he smirks and gives a little shrug. "More fun to do it down here than in Raptor Country." he explains. "Here, when I get bored, I've got something to look at other than pictures of dead people." he says simply.

"Secretary? I catch that right? You actually worked for this man…you poor lout." Sawyer clamps Rejn's cigar in her back teeth, mumbling a "Pleased ta meetcha," around the thickness to McQueen. She takes a deep puff, holding the smoke for as long as she's able as she passes it back to its owner. Sweet smoke is exhaled towards the ceiling with a cant of her lips, and then she's expounding on the introduction. "Sawyer Averies. Professional nosy neighbor. I bunk above the Snow Petrel's Captain." She reaches over and pats Evan on the knee. "Don't worry, Bunny. They aren't loaded."

"What, like those vintage magazines? There was a whole drawerful in my desk." Uh oh. Someone left vintage naughty magazines in Lun's desk. "I don't know why I'd need those but I was kind of jealous of the corsets. I just look sad in them," Ponder. Big boobies are indeed, an inspiring subject. A curious look to McQueen. "Queenie?" Blink. She looks to Marko as he speaks to her again. "Oh?" A warm look as he smirks. Daw. "That's true. I came here because it's nicer. Although I think I may head back to my desk since I think I'll be back on soon."

"Oh, no. I only work for him as a humble public servant." McQueen says, pointedly at Rejn and Sawyer. "The same way this ship is beholden to pretty much anyone in the civil service." There's a measured crack in his features as he looks from the lady to the older man. "Obviously. There's only one here out of the three of us with grace and it isn't /us/." He says as an aside to Sawyer, indicating between himself and Rejn. "To level with you though, I'm sorry. I'm beginning to wonder if I could have traded my survival for theirs. Maybe it would have been more worthy. Anyway, I'm Trevor McQueen. Formerly attached to Picon VFA-151 but somehow ended up here due to a Divine Miracle." He clears his throat. "Speaking of miracles, though. We're all here. I'm thinkin' the Cylons stepped on their dicks on this one. They don't know where we are. And I hope we use that." A lingering pause and another smoke-drag. "Just sayin'." There's a broad smile.

Evandreus waits 'til Sawyer's not gnawing on Rejn's cigar, then he leans straight into her with his shoulder to give her a snuggling by way of a proper greeting, head nudging all along her shoulder like a cuddlebug is wont to do. Rejn can probably be glad at this point that the Raptorbunny didn't plonk down by him, instead. "Oh, you worked for Allan, Queenie?" he pipes into the conversation, catching onto some passing rail and holding on. "It can't have been that bad," he goes on, giving the employer in question a warm smile, before his attention's on Queenie again. "Heh! It's funny how it didn't seem much of a miracle at the time, though, eh? I was supposed to be finishing up a deployment with Assaultstar Victory, if I hadn't gotten plucked for Juggles' team here. Seemed such a matter of course until the world ended and it turns out to have saved my skin."

Enter Tisiphone, stepping through the Observation Deck hatch with her head bowed, already lighting up a cigarette as she steps through. She leaves the thick puff of lighter-fluid-scented smoke hanging half in the corridor, half inside as she ambles in, loose-laced boots scuffing sloppily against the deck with each step. There's a black-bound book with no label on covers or spine tucked under her casted arm.

"Miracle," Rejn repeats. "Yeah. And a tip from somebody who's seen a hundred bottle-blondes slut it up for better grades, girl — if you use a corset to push 'em up, you're frakking cheating." This, presumably, is Rejn's way of saying goodbye to Lunair, after which Marko is graced with a curt "Your loss, kid." This time, Rejn catches the matchbook without any further complications, depositing it into his pocket after another awkward series of contortions to free up enough space between his pants and his not-insubstantial thighs. "What was it that poet guy said? 'A woman is just a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke'? Genius. Try that line on your Viper Captain, Averies. I'm sure flyboy's got a nice aromatic one just waiting for — " The last few words of that sentence are nearly swallowed, his precise enunciation turning into rumbling mutters as he snaps his fingers to request the return of said Smoke. More gurgling as he swallows a lump of phlegm. "Yet," he finishes. An answer for McQueen. "They don't know where we are yet. And if your Admiral Mikey didn't have a spring and two slices of cheese in his head for a brain, we'd be the frak out of here before yet becomes Oh, shit, they do."

Marko shrugs a little. "Never could get into it's all, smoking, I mean." he replies to Rejn. "You remember when you were a kid in school and they'd teach those fire safety classes?" he asks. "They'd always tell you 'Remember, kid's the smoke is more dangerous than the fire! Get down on the floor and crawl to the door so you don't get too much of it in your lungs! I am completely on the same page with them, sir." he smirks. "How's it going, Bunny?" he asks Evandreus,

"And yet. Once you open the floodgates, there's no stopping the bloody tide." McQueen responds with alacrity. "There's no telling what will happen, or who will do what. The universe is like that. Which is why even after all that's happened, it's still a bloody amazing place. I love it. /That/ is why it's a miracle. But I'll hold you up another time, Mr. Rejn." He waggles an eyebrow in non-feigned amusement. "We'll get out of here, allright. Go somewhere else." He shrugs, however slightly. "The Old Man's no fool." Waving at the bulky man, he's said his piece, and turns to spy Evandreus again. "No, it wasn't like that. Just met him while I was on detachment there in that bloody anchorage before the bastards hit, yeh?" He flickers a gentle smile at Evandreus as he continues to smoke. "As I said, it's all a miracle if you're walking, breathing, living rather than being in the ground. Or in a frakkin' box." There's a long pause and his smile fades as he starts to fiddle in his duffel again.

Sawyer raises a hand to cup Evandreus' face and hug him with her cheek atop his head while he's nuzzling. "This one is cute /and/ delusional." Obviously speaking of McQueen again. She's not quite sure where Rejn's going with that comment about the cigar, and women, and the Viper Captain so sometimes it's better not to retort at all. "Mm. You sit down for five minutes and suddenly you realize how tired you are."

McQueen produces a flask. "For the fallen." He holds it aloft. The smile is gone.

The sound of lively conversation draw Tisiphone's attention out of whatever middle distance it had been settled at. Pale eyes focus on Rejn for several beats of discourse, followed by McQueen. Her trajectory is altered, taking her on a route toward the front windows that passes behind Rejn at a distance of three-point-zero couch-lengths.

3.0 couch lengths? Oh noes. Rejn thus cannot see the bald ensign zoom past his field of vision, and wouldn't have seen her even if he weren't distracted by McQueen. "In a box is where you'll be if you keep on fellating the 'bloody amazing' universe." Rejn snaps his fingers again — all that nuzzling between Sawyer and Evandreus means his cigar has not been returned. "Encased in tarred-up pinewood some six feet underground, if I can still use that damned idiom now that we don't have dirt in which to shove you." His roughened cough sends a bit of saliva onto the sleeve of his suit, which smells of some weird combination of sweat, drool, and — ketchup? "Got lucky," he mutters, gesturing with his head to the starscape beyond. "All of us got lucky, and when the dealer gives you full colors you don't stick around to give it all back to the house."

"And you don't breathe the smoke, kid." Belatedly, from Rejn to Marko. "Just hold it, is all. I'd offer to show you but I think you'd get all preachy, and if I wanted that I'd go to your chapel."

Evandreus doesn't get it, either— the cigar comment, that is— but it doesn't stop him staring at Rejn a short while in an attempt to decipher even while he seems to try to scratch an itch on Sawyer's upper arm with his generous stubble. "Or… floating in the dark in a billion bits?" is his only contribution to the elegies from Queenie, and the hungry-looking spectre that passes behind makes his head turn a little without losing contact from Magsie's shoulder. He almost gets a look at Tisiphone. Almost. "Well, we'll all get there. I mean, the odds are really small we survived this long… but, then, if we hadn't, we wouldn't be around to remark on how strange it is. One in a billion. But with a billion others shot down, that's not a miracle, that's just… math, yo."

Right. The Cigar. Sawyer got distracted somewhere in there, where she was mid-giving it back, so now she might as well take one more puff before depositing it in Rejn's impatient fingers. There. Returned! Grey smoke curls from her lips towards the ceiling before she's declaring: "I should get to bed."

"That's a little too much flattery." McQueen says as an aside to Sawyer, not sounding like he's particularly complaining. Not waiting, really, he pops open the lid of the flask and takes a sip of whatever liquor it is. Smells like whisky. Probably whisky. He holds it aloft with the lid off for any nearby takers after his toast. Repeating again. "For the fallen." Choking back the liquor, he glances pointedly at Rejn. "The idiom takes on a life of its own. And you, sir, apparently don't play the high stakes. When you're down all your chips, if you go home empty-handed, the wife beats you in the arse. When you start playin', win or go home." Evandreus' comment earns a simple nod. "You just said it in a bit more literal fashion, is all." He hasn't noticed Tisiphone yet.

"Well, maybe it's a little bit of both." Marko muses, setting his clipboard and its busy work aside. "A month ago, I probably would've told you that the Lords of Kobol could kiss my ass if they existed." he says. "Now…I dunno…Maybe there is another power at work here." he muses. "Dunno if it's the Lords of Kobol, or fate, or what, but…yeah….To be the last people left standing after a massacre like that? It gets you thinking." he sighs. Rejn's comment draws a slight smirk. "Mom was the preachy type, sir. Me, I just turn green and wanna puke my guts out every time I take a drag on a cigarette. If that makes me a wuss, so be it. I've been call a hell of a lot worse." he chuckles.

"Above the Viper Captain, Averies?" Rejn accepts his Imperial with a touch and a faint, tight grin, and his thumb presses tightly against the reporter's fingers — assurance, in a manner of speaking, or reassurance. "Figures." But behind the irreverence is clear concern, even if it fades as the woman turns to go and all the talk about being the last people standing gets his dander up. "Got me thinking too, kid. Got me thinking for all of one point two frakking seconds, and you know what I came up with? It's not win or go home. It's win or be obliterated with the other fifty billion out there, and we're sure as the sun comes up in the sky and stud stallions frak supple mares not going to win." How's that for preachy?

Having (possibly-maybe) circumnavigated Rejn, Tisiphone steps down off the lowest tier of steps and starts crossing the empty space at the base of the deck, angling for a spot where the starscape sprawls above and to both sides of her. She drags hard on her cigarette as she walks, exhaling in a plume toward the ceiling.

There looks like there's going to be yet a counter coming up from McQueen, and he just shrugs, sloppily, smoking himself as he still holds on to that flask, jutting it out in front of him. "Nah. I'm not callin' you that. To each their own. I just don't think we've got the foresight of the —" He gestures to Marko with his cigarette after acknowledging his statement, "Gods, here. If we did, we'd have done a lot of things differently. I'd almost bet you against your certainty but out of respect for your beliefs, and the knowledge that you're not a betting man, I'll pass." Finally, that moment of seriousness passes, and the Viper pilot smiles warmly. "Still. You did good work. We're glad to have you." This last bit is still directed at Rejn, before he slowly turns aside, catching Tisiphone. "'Lo, Money."

"What is it about you and Sitka, Allan? I referenced him as an identifying landmark, not as territory." Sawyer smirks slightly, relinquishing the man's smoke after that reassuring touch. Yes, yes, all in good fun. "Goodnight boys." She disentangles herself from the warmth of an Evandreus cuddle bug after a little quick squeeze and a kiss on top of his head. To Tisiphone, there's a nod and a /look/.

If Sawyer's leaving, she'll have to unburden herself of a Bunny, first, who doesn't seem to be taking the hint that he shouldn't be lounging against her anymore. Maybe she's just -that- comfy. He does slip open his book and pick throught he thick, stiff pages to the first one with real text on it, even if he seems more interested in what Rejn has to say than what Pseudovergil has to say, for the moment, the sentiment of inevitable doom drawing a look two parts peaceful resignation, one part melancholy. But then he's shaken from his thoughts by a Sawyer shuffling out from under him, and he sits up straight again, with some urging.

It's not quite a flinch, but the crooked, long-limbed slouch Tisiphone was settling herself into suddenly holds very still for a moment. She looks down at her cigarette a moment, dipping her head to steal another drag from the cancer-stick trapped between casted fingers, then swings herself around with deliberate casualness. Another pale stare around the room, now that faces are turned her way, before she ambles back, polite enough to close the conversational gap at least /somewhat/ before greeting, "Queenie."

"Get laid, Averies. Good way to de-stress, and since for some stupid reason I wear this godsdamned ring on my finger, I just have to live vicariously through you." One last parting shot before the woman vanishes. "And — good work? Twelve years with CANUD getting ignored by nuclear hawks from Leonis screaming build, build, build, and look what all the shit we built got us. Apostolos." The name doesn't actually follow from his train of thought, but she's just come into his field of view. Not getting away that easily. Rejn swivels back around to rest more comfortably in his sofa, right knee a good two feet or so away from his left knee so the ash from his cigar doesn't land on his pants. "I've got an idea for your new callsign: Flapjack. Except that might be giving pancakes short shrift." The subtext: 'Hello! Great to see you too.'

Marko shrugs a little, sitting up and looking a mite on the pugnacious side to all of the portents and prognostications of impending doom. "Hey, I'll be the last person to say if I have the foggiest idea if we're going to live or not. But I'm damn sure not going to roll over and die because things look tough." he says flatly. "Whatever happens from here, just _happens_ and yeah, there's only so much we can do about it. So why not do what we can and save the regrets and woulda, coulda, shouldas until we really _are_ dead."

"And yet that wasn't what killed us, was it?" Queenie says, apparently baited into the exchange once more, good-naturedly. "To tell the truth, the vast portion of the human race died without ever knowing the truth of /why/ the Cylons did what they did." His own harsh Leonitian working-class accent lilts sharply. Out of all of this, Tis and Marko both get nods again in turn as McQueen finishes his cigarette. Marko's interjection meets a 'what-he-said' look. "Which is one of the saddest parts of all. Of death. When you die, you die. You don't know why the other bastard pulled the trigger." He mulls over his speech some and just says plainly to Rejn. "The reason I'm complimenting you is you /tried/. That's all one can expect from anyone who doesn't have control of a situation. It may seem like a hollow solace, but trust me, /someone/ keeps track of these things." He clears his throat. "Gods, y'see. Whatever you might think of them."

McQueen also watches Sawyer go. He's a busy one, attention-wise.

Evandreus momentarily considers clamboring over the seat back in front of him and down onto Rejn's couch with him. For some reason, however, most men seem decidedly less inclined toward cuddles than womenfolk, and so with a great heave of his clay-like limbs he flops himself about on the couch he's currently inhabiting, propping himself up on an armrest and looking down to the text, though his eyes don't go much past the first line of the page.

"Queenie, philosopher king." Rejn spits out those last few syllables, lips pursing as he tries to get off some of the lipstick taste. "They pulled the trigger because they're homicidal paranoid maniacs who won't stop until they're the only ones left in the known universe. Think the pricks in the Leonis Ministry of Defense with fifty hundred times the number of nukes. So unfrak your ears and listen, boy." Yeah, Marko: Rejn just downgraded you from 'kid.' Somewhere in that sentence, his gaze has drifted back over to the black-haired ensign. He must really be displeased, as smoke's now rising from the pores of his skin — or maybe he's just holding his cigar a little too close to his face. "You hear me say 'roll over'? I didn't say 'roll over' because the last time I tried rolling over my doctor put me on a no-meat diet and double-bypassed my frakking heart, and because running like a little arachnophobic girl from a swarm of a billion spiders isn't rolling over, it's using that grey matter with which the gods saw fit to bless us when they first put us on Kobol and told us to put our pegs into holes."

"Not," he appends, "that running like a little arachnophobic girl wouldn't give me a double-bypass and stop me from eating steak, but. That wasn't my point." A harsh chuckle accompanies that concession to reality, one that causes his cheeks to jiggle.

It's a long, unwavering, and not particularly friendly stare that Tisiphone gifts Rejn with as she lifts her cigarette back to her mouth for a drag. On the exhale, her stare moves to McQueen, to whom she says, bone-dry, "Thanks for the catch. I'd nearly managed avoiding this conversation entirely." The subtext is written fairly clearly upon her face: …jerk. Her good hand is slouched down into her pocket as she looks back to Rejn. "I missed it in our introduction," she says to him. "Why we're supposed to listen to you talk, and talk." Pause. "And talk."

A pair of blue eyes flash angrily as Marko stiffens in his seat, looking, for approximately point zero two eight seconds, as if he's about to leap out of his seat and commence some manner of violent action before he gains control of himself, and manages to unclench his jaw. "Okay, so we run." he says flatly. "I'm okay with that. I might be just a boy, but I'm not frakking stupid." he adds. "You got some idea of where we can run to? Because, last time I looked, every planet we could live on's been nuked to frak and gone. So, why don't you take all your heaps and heaps of knowledge back to the Starboard Hangar or wherever it is you're living at the moment, and ponder that one, _mister_." he says, voice clipped with anger. 'Mister' not being a particularly endearing term in this usage. "And when you've cooked up a solution about where to go, _then_, you can call me 'boy', _sir_. Mean time, my rank is Ensign, copy that?"

"I'm king o' nothing. Civilization would've been better off without 'em, on all counts. I'm just a sad drunk who can just happen to fly a plane and maybe got hit in the head a few frakkin' times until he opened his eyes. Anyone can do that, all they have to do is learn to look." He sets down the flask of whisky on the couch for all takers. This done, McQueen continues. "I think there were enough mistakes made on a /lot/ of levels, this much is true, but what were we operatin on? We were floatin' on a carpet of frakkin' silence. We didn't know what to think, because the Cylons weren't exactly pissin' out diplomatic overtures, were they? Some people got scared, and when they get scared? That's when a man gets frakking /stupid/. I'm not saying it wasn't a huge mistake, I just maybe want to understand why things happened the way they did. Which is my own funeral, I know." He falls silent again as he starts to note Tisiphone's reaction. Marko's reaction. And grimaces a little.

McQueen adds, "I'm goin to point out the painfully obvious here. We're all on the same side. Just because he and I can disagree without coming to blows? Well, that means…" He adds with a faint, helpless gesture towards Rejn. "That's /good./"

Evandreus seems content enough to retreat from the dialogue as it grows acrimonious. Something on the first line of that book keeps his eye from progressing to the second line, and, after Queenie requests no violence, he pipes up feebly in support for the notion. "No hitting." Not as though he believed it might actually come to that. Distracted, like a babysitter in a room fulla kids, one more interested in the TV than in looking after them past the point of making sure they don't die.

"See, Doe?" Rejn looks remarkably pleased with himself when the ensign explodes, turning once more so he can look the chilled-out Raptor driver in the eye. "This is the kind of insane I was talking about yesterday." And then, very patiently, like a schoolteacher lecturing a dullard, his own narrow eyes meet Marko's: "Count the stars, boy. Just look out there past that big clear thing — it's called a 'window,' by the way — and count the stars." His burning cigar points towards the top-left corner of the peaceful view. "One. Two. Three. Four — that's the number that comes after three, see — and, wonder of wonders, you can keep on going once you pass four. So there must be … at least ten star systems out there where the Cylons aren't at. Maybe even more. How about we drive this godsdamned boondoggle that way?" That high tenor is veritably dripping with condescension as he puffs away on his cigar before offering it to Tisiphone with a tight little grin. "You listen to me because I'm right. Smoke? It's a Caprican Imperial. Man's cigar, and you're close enough." McQueen gets an oddly level look, nothing more. No, no hitting: on that point, at least, Queenie and Rejn are in agreement.

Marko's outburst seems to be as much of surprise to him as it is to everyone else. A bright pulse of long-restrained anger, resentment and frustration that burns itself out no sooner than it begins. "Yeah…" the young ECO says, picking up his clipboard and flipping the reading light on as he begins to immerse himself in it's contents in a 'I don't want to look at anyone' kind of way. "Pick a star, _we'll_ scout it for you, civilian." he grumbles.

A second resentful stare is flicked at McQueen — it's YOUR fault I'm having THIS conversation — as Tisiphone takes another drag off her cigarette, holds it for a count of three, then exhales. "I listen to you because I can't seem to get /away/ from you," she points out to Rejn, determined patience keeping her words flat and somewhat clipped. "Caprican Imperial? I'll take one you haven't drooled on yet." A point of sharp chin at the cigar he's gesturing with.

Finishing up his cigarette and leaving the flask on the couch for the needy, McQueen re-slings his bag. He seems oddly sedate in all this. He clears his throat. "Mmm. Chain of command." He says, sounding briefly disapproving, and sad. "Anyway, that'd be an idea, if someone gave us a bloody map. Too bad space is infinite." He notes, his lips taking on a slightly sour curl. "This is all conjecture, anyway. We're men, not gods. We don't make our destiny. That's gobshite. We can ride the tide. And we can be our own men in the meantime." He gestures towards the flask with a splayed-out hand. "Money. Flasher." He hesitates over Evandreus and finally notes. "Bunny." "You too." He says, oddly smiling at Rejn. "Feel free to split that, all of ya." He gives Tisiphone, finally, a bright, foxlike smile. "And think about what you have right here, and right now. We're going to go where we're going." He tacks on a final statement, "So say we all. 'Scuse me." With that, he starts heading towards the hatch. "

"Until we run out of gas," Evan appends to Marko's offer, mildly. "Out of every million star systems out there, how many have planets that are capable of supporting life? And how many of -those- are capable of supporting -human- life? Not a whole lot of them. Going and scouting one after another is all well and good, but the chances of us finding one in the next three years is pretty close to infinitesimally small." He looks to Rejn with a glance that might be apologetic, in some bland fashion, then back over to Marko, seeming unmoved by the outburst.

"Like I said." Marko shrugs simply. "It's all a matter of where to run _to_." he says, fishing a pen out of his pocket and starting to jot down notes on the various schematics and other errata on his clipboard.

Sharp blue eyes follow McQueen out of the hatch, but oddly, Rejn doesn't bother responding. Instead, his acid is reserved for Marko: "Look at the ensign stop hissing. That's a good boy." Rejn's smile resembles that of a cat who's just raided a pantry full of milk, and his moustache quivers with barely-repressed amusement. Yellow-tinted glasses ride up on his face before he pushes them down with an insistent finger. "Tomorrow, we do long division, and I explain that no, we don't actually have to settle down on an actual planet to escape the homicidal — nay, genocidal — Cylons. Complicated. I know." Then, very deliberately, his fingers crunch down on his cigar's lit foot, snuffing the flame without a flinch. It's tossed Tisiphone's way, spiraling through the air just so. "Keep it," he snorts. "Closest thing to a man's lips that'll ever touch yours. Or sell it for some silicone — valuable commodity, Imperials, from what I hear." And without further sound or fury, Rejn slides off the couch, yanking his pants up by the belt and stumping towards the stairs leading up. "Oh. Did I say at least ten systems?" he offers lightly. "I meant at least twenty." Because he can't resist one final jab before the hatch spirits him out of a room that's now just gotten significantly quieter.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License