PHD #428: Of Wolves and Gazelles
Of Wolves and Gazelles
Summary: Trask visits Bannik and Sawyer. For once, the brigged parties are awake when he's there.
Date: 30 Apr 2042 AE
Related Logs: With Friends Like These (for all the Gemenon/Cylon foo)
Bannik Sawyer Trask 
Main Brig - Deck 6 - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #428
Tiny and cramped, the Main Brig seems designed to be claustrophobic. The steel bars lining the three cells have been set into the steel bulkheads on each side. Inside each cell is a stainless steel toilet and a bunk that might be too short for some of the taller crewmembers. The dreary conditions don't seem to be helped by the presence of a Marine guard who is there twenty-four hours a day, as long as a prisoner is in custody. The whole room is under surveillance via camera system in the Security Hub and every visitor must sign-in and abide by the rules.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

It having been approaching — what? A week? Over a week in the brig? Tyr Bannik has had to be creative in what he does to pass the time. Currently, he's given to humming and singing under his breath, digging up old jazzy tunes. What's perhaps more interesting is that as he hums, his fingers move across the air, as if playing some imaginary keyboard. "What's the matter, baby? What you tryin' to say? Oh, what's the matter, baby …" He stops himself, fixing his hand position on the "keys."

"There aren't enough hours in a day to even /begin/ answering that," is wryly relayed by the smartass SL of the VAQ-141. Of the ten (10) days that Bannik and Sawyer have been in the proverbial big house, the first three (3) or so overlapped with Trask being laid-up in Medical, full of no small amount of painkillers and sedatives. Apart from still being off the flightline for a while longer, he returned to duty a few days ago, and appears no worse for wear apart from a certain tiredness that he ordinarily better shoulders. There's a flickering glance to the blonde journalist currently snoozing in her cell, then eyes are back on Bannik. "Shank anyone yet? I hear prison life is tough." Beat. "I bet you could totally fashion a wicked shiv, wunderkind that you are."

Bannik glances up from his imaginary piano, shaking away the concentration in his head to focus on his new visitor. Playing RealisticAirPiano<tm> is difficult, you know! "Well, no," says Bannik with no small amount of regret. "But I've been able to hang on to the soap, so I think I'm throwing .500, which is pretty darn good, don't you think? I mean, I'm not really built for prison life. I'm kind of scrawny and the guards don't let me do reps in the cell lest I bulk up too much, overpower them, and take over the ship." It's all delivered very, very deadpan. "How are you, Bootstrap? Here to see Sawyer?" He gestures with his thumb towards the cell next to his.

"He tries to time it perfectly for when I'm sleeping." Comes a groggy voice the next cell over, the lump beneath the scratchy blanket starting to stir. She had the covers pulled almost completely over her head, a lesson learned when you're trying to sleep in an environment that always has a light on 24/7. Like the rising Dead from a grave, her hand claws out first, dragging down the blanket before her blonde head emerges. Eyes are the pinched slits of 'oh god is it morning', as she tries to focus across to the two men.

"I've seen her." Literally. Just now. And pretty much any other day he's come to visit. This actually is the first time he's caught either of them awake. "Ain't that like the Man to keep you down," the ECO plays along about badassery belayed. As to the question about how he is, "Oh, I'm as fine as anyone ever can be when surrounded by stupidity. Part and parcel of it being a day of the week ending in the letter 'y', I suppose."

And then Averies awakes. "So much so that I even come by during designated visiting hours," is retorted about avoidance. Because the by-the-book Master-at-Arms makes no exceptions. "You snooze, you lose, sunshine." Subtly, Trask smirks, but there's a certain faint fondness in those brown eyes as he watches the blonde slowly claw her way out of the blanket much like a zombie would through cemetery soil.

Bannik just smiles tightly at that. "Isn't that the problem, Bootstrap? Us, too. Maybe if we get sprung from this hole, we can try to raise the collective IQ a couple points. I wouldn't hold out great hope, though." But his bravado comes off sounding more tired than anything. Tyr has a tough time talking the talk here.

"Frak you, too," comes the blonde's blithe response, but there is a layer beneath the vim, like the cuss word 'frak' was actually meant to be a much sweeter term. Sawyer gives Kal a bleary smile which is then transferred towards Bannik as she pulls her legs out from the covers and swings around to a seated position. Her hands make a vague attempt to fingercomb out her hair, and that's about as presentable as she's going to get. Up and shuffling over towards the little steel sink her her cell, she turns the cold water on. "We'll get out soon. Once they decide how we're reentering the populous." She ducks down to fill her hands with the crisp clear water pouring from the tap, a little gasp being emitted when she splashes it onto her face.

"I knew a few snipes, back on the Theatron," Trask starts telling Tyr, "who liked to play some game involving dice and character sheets, I think they called 'em. Anyway, one day, my 18 year-old self asked 'em what they were doing, and they tried explaining this game to me. I remember getting the hell outta there thinking that these were some of the most intelligent people on the ship, but their Wisdom score… I /think/ that's what it's called. Whatever. Moot point. The point is that despite their mega-IQs, they were still pretty damn dumb." Who that barb is directed at, however, is anyone's guess.

To Sawyer, the subtle smirk resurfaces. "Sorry. Even if we were married, conjugal visits aren't being permitted." Not that the pseudo couple has even come close to frakking. In response to what else the woman says, though, the SL remarks, "Yeah. I'm startin' to think that you guys are in here more for your safety than that of the Fleet."

"Reentering the populace? What are we? Like, wolves being released back into the Colonial Parks near some ranching lands?" Being from Aerilon, of course Tyr would go for that particular analogy. But nonetheless, he does manage to muster a small bit of a smile. "I'm getting the word out from here, at least, best I can. Try to — you know. Let people know about what really happened down there."

Sawyer pats her face on the sleeves of her sweatshirt, now a little bit more awake. "The response is that bad, huh? I've been bending the ear of anyone who'll give me five minutes. But I suspect we'll not be received with open arms by the masses?" She asks of Trask as she pads over to the bars in her stocking feet. She doesn't make any move to try to touch him through the bars, lest he get tackled by a guard and she get tasered, but her fingers do curl around one of the metal crossbars as if she'd like to do just that. "I can barely get a cigarette through; the required anatomy would prove impossible for a Conjugal." Her eyes scan him, "You're okay then. I hear you got a new, pretty scar."

"You, young Bannik, are more like a gazelle." Never mind that wolves and gazelles really don't live in the same type of region. Trask is a Black Country boy. That he even knows what a gazelle is arguably is a marvel. "And if you," that being Sawyer, "actually bothered to play with my penis, you'd know it'd be perfectly possible were I permitted to reach through those bars to grab your ass for leverage." All relayed as causally as one might relay what's being served in the Mess Hall today. As far as scars, though, an impishness curves the man's mouth. "It's not as big as my dick, but still large enough to make most women ooh and ah." Lifting his tank top and tee, his toned mid-section remains covered by a compression bandage. Free thumb and forefinger are extended to a length of approximately three (3) inches, then rested against the not so sweet spot.

"I think if I were a gazelle, I'd more have lions chasing me than wolves, but I appreciate the thought, Trask." With his pedantry aside, Bannik really has no more to add to the witty banter than Trask is already bringing. So, instead, he glances towards the compression bandage, offering a sympathetic wince.

Sawyer frowns severely, and it's not from the crass words coming out of Trask's mouth (those she's used to) but rather the bandage he reveals. She sinks down into her knees, to get more on eye level with the wound. "Look at you, putting a drastic dent in the Fleet's gauze supply." That hand that has never left the bars pulls her back to her feet. "You'll just have to be patient for me to get out of here, so I can kiss your boo-boo. And by that, I actually mean your new scar." She glances back to Bannik, "Whatever fauna we are, just be prepared."

It's not that Bootstrap moves stiffly per se, but an observant person — especially an observant person familiar with the man — would notice that he's not so spry in his movements. Regardless of his resilience and propensity for rather quick healing, briskness is still a few weeks away. That said, he doesn't appear to be in pain. Whether or not that's actually the case is another matter. With a lack of fanfare, the shirts are lowered. "My old scars demand equal treatment," is simply said. "And Stavrian was threatening to cut off my lollipop supply." Spoken as if that's the /real/ reason he ended-up on the operating table, the Fleet's gauze supply be damned.

"I'll let the two of you try and work out the clearly unresolved sexual tension you have," says Bannik, looking between reporter and Raptor ECO and then back again. "Uhm. Good luck with that. I'll be over here playing Air Piano if anyone needs me." And so Tyr retreats back to his bunk, away from the happy couple.

Scene fade due to RL.

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