| Significance |
| Summary: | Sawyer and Trask contemplate the significance of certain things. |
| Date: | 25 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Pinholes and Shadows & Kitsch... and Corpses |
| Players: |
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| Pilot Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #211 |
| The battlestar's pilots call this place home. Bunks line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each pair of bunks and a round metal table sits in the center, furnished with simple but comfortable steel chairs. A hatch at the rear of the room leads to a communal head. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
It's rare when it is not hectic in the Air Wing. These past 24 hours, though, have at least been a relatively pleasant kind of busy. Between managing the day-to-day affairs of the VAQ-141, the ongoing search and rescue missions, and now the total liquidation of the West Aerilon Colonial Emporium, it's a wonder that Trask managed to find the time to squeeze in a shower. All the same, he did, if the fact that he's toweling off is any indication.
Some gift bags are already hidden behind the curtain of Quinn's bunk, stuffed full of items to appease the preggo. She, however, is not the only recipient of the man's gift-giving. Smack dab in the middle of the mattress that's housed above the bed that once was occupied by SITKA, I., there awaits two items for the oft absent AVERIES, S. — (1) a sheet of paper someone traced the outline of a splayed hand that was then modified with different colored markers to make it look like a turkey, just like the kind second-graders are taught to make; and (2) a postcard featuring a photograph of one of the majestic wild turkeys of Brower County, know to be as ornery as they are delicious. On the postcard, written in a hand that is more-or-less legible despite not being at all neat, is: The similarity is astounding, isn't it?
Sometimes you just have one of those songs stuck in your head for no explicable reason, and it bounces around so much in your cranium it eventually escapes your lips when you're too distracted to notice. Such seems the case now with Sawyer, who's singing a tune under her breath as she pushes through the main hatch into pilot berthings where she still retains an honorary bunk. Honorary only because she seems to spend her nights elsewhere, though no one truly knows where that is. Some rumor that she never sleeps, others say she works so much she just crashes right there at her desk. Whatever the case, she still returns to berthings when it's time to shower or pick up the odd belonging or change of clothes. "I don't like you, but I love you… seems that I'm always thinking of you. Oh oooh oh, you treat me badly… I love you madly, you really got a hold on me…" And so it goes as she crosses to her bunk flicking a glance aside to catch the sight of the post-shower ritual of one TRASK, K. She quickly averts her eyes, but the smirk on her lips is enough to indicate she saw enough.
She hoists herself up on the ladder, studiously avoiding looking into Sitka's bunk out of habit, and reaching out to flick open her curtain. There's a pause, a single hiccup of laughter, and Sawyer is carefully dropping back down to the deck in her heels, flapping the postcard in her hand. Now she has an excuse to look at Trask. "Truly astounding."
One needn't be an investigative journalist to note that the jerkass has quite the noteworthy ass. With a cursory glance, though, it's possible that it is the elaborate kirituhi tatau decorating his well-toned arms and shoulders, as well as his upper-back and even part of his legs, are what actually would draw one's attention. Now that Sawyer is full-on looking, her attention can wander and loiter to her heart's content. Like most career military people, Trask is perfectly comfortable going about his business stark naked. Without missing a beat, or ceasing rubbing the towel across his scalp, he replies, "That's what /I/ thought. I wouldn't be surprised if their dark powers of deliciousness come from shadow turkey ancestors." Indeed, the 'body' of the drawing has been colored black, whereas the tail feathers are red and yellow and the sickly orange that comes from using the red marker on top of the yellow one, as if to illustrate the possible connection.
Sawyer is surprisingly not as brazen about some things as might be assumed about the ballsy journalist. Her gaze stays mostly above Trask's shoulder level. Mostly. "Don't forget their narcoleptic effects. The powers of the turkey are tenfold and mighty…and…tenfold." She clears her throat, and turns to open her locker, momentarily forgetting her combination and fumbling to start the twisting and turning all over again. "Nice ink." She looks at the drawing and postcard a moment longer, then opens a little lockbox within her locker and tucks the pieces of paper inside. "Thank you, by the way, for taking the reins on this civilian distribution thing." Her voice is directed to the interior of her locker, but is obviously meant for Kal.
"The better to serve their master Morpheus…" He pauses a moment, combing his memory as he continues towel off his hair. Rub-rub-rub. "No, wait… That's Dreams." It's not like Kal knows enough lore to reference Aergia, after all. If he did, though, the shadow puppet turkey joke definitely would further evolve. "Hypnos?" A glance to Sawyer for confirmation. "He's Sleep, right?" What he does seem to know is that the reporter seems a bit addled. So, smartass that he is, he replies to the compliment about his tatau with a scampish smile and a, "Nice save." Whether or not she was actually looking elsewhere is moot. As for the rest, "Yeah, well, not everything's as glamorous as bein' shot at by Raiders… or Heavy Raiders… or insurgents… Don't let the public know that, though." He smirks. "Anyway, beyond off-loading the bare necessities, I have nothin' to do with it. So, if it doesn't involve soap or pillows, you'll need to send thanks and/or nastygrams to Command and/or the Quartermaster's office."
"The bare necessities are plenty glamorous, so I'm allowed to say thank you. Clean, well fed, clothed and sheltered never used to be such a novel concept, did it? Well, at least where I'm from." Fingers drag through her blonde fringe of hair until they get to the pins securing into a tight Virgan twist at the nape of her neck, and she starts shaking it loose from the confines. During this procedure she dares a glance in Kal's direction to see if his clothing situation has changed. Nope. "I'm rather adept at nice saves. Do they have any deep meaningful significance? The tattoos. Or are they just there to look pretty on the off chance you're seen…" 'Naked' starts to be formed, but some how changes mid-word to, "…fresh out of the showers."
"Not everyone's from where you're from," he blithely says with the off-handed dismissiveness of someone who doesn't like to dwell upon just how novel those things were to him when growing-up. Idly, the towel is slung over a shoulder and his already unlocked locker door is opened. "I'm Taurian," Bootstrap wryly smirks, as if that explains everything. Retrieving a fresh pair of dark military-issue boxer briefs, one leg goes up and in, then the other. "An' all of me is pretty, thankyouverymuch," is quipped. Shimmy-shimmy until the nether regions are finally covered. Even so, that ass evidently is no less on display despite the fabric. heh.
"There's a reason why I left where I'm from." Implying, of course, it's to get more exposure to the 'real world', as it were. Probably a good thing for someone in her chosen profession to have. Hair down, her suspenders are removed and hung on a hook inside her locker. As she untucks her blouse from her suit pants, she wanders over. Bravery comes in the form of underwear, it seems. Underwear, at least, when it's put on naked men. "Physically, at least," comes the concession that Kal is in fact pretty everywhere. "So explain to me as if I didn't know what that meant. That you're Taurian." Standing behind him at his locker, now she takes the time to let her gaze wander. Purely for research purposes.
Being a man, he unthinkingly does the manly thing and adjusts his junk to be more comfortable in his undies. Somewhat (and unintentionally) comedic, Kal's face contorts as he does so. No, it does not matter that Sawyer is advancing. This is simply Something That Men Do and no cause for the least bit of embarrassment. Not on his part, anyway. This is just business as usual. "You're suggesting that I'm more than tasty eye candy?" Someone is not lacking in self-deprecating humor.
The tank top he nabs is the next garment to be donned. Although not before someone with keen eyes might be able to see no small amount of faded scars mingling with the texture and ink of the tatau, and marking naturally light tan skin where no other ornamentation is evident. Those as much as the kirituhi are chapters of his life story, although those tales can be read by anyone able to read between the lines, so to speak. Case in point, Trask instinctively turns to face the reporter when she's too close for comfort to be standing behind him. After all, some hard lessons become hard-wired. Even so, he seems vaguely amused, even if there's a certain flash of discomfort in those damnably expressive brown eyes of his. "It means that, odds are, each an' every line and its positioning mean something." Cue the cat who just ate the cream smile. "And that I'm not gonna explain what any of them mean."
Sawyer actually had a hand extended to touch one of those lines, scar or otherwise, when he turns around. Her hand immediately and sharply retracts, as if struck. There's a faint flush on apples of her cheeks, a blush on any other woman but Sawyer covers it well with the strength and cocksuredness of her voice. "You do know that only means I'll have to dig deeper, and sometimes my inquisitive nature can be…uncomfortable…for the parties involved." Her chin lifts to a haughty height, but she wears a slight smirk at the corner of her eyes. "Will you at least tell me how you earned your callsign?"
Don't be fooled by the puppy dog eyes — oh, those puppy dog eyes! — because they narrow and turn feral when he realizes what Sawyer was intending to do. Trask does more than bark, you see, and when he's provoked to bite, more than fingers will be lost. It's a look that lingers just long enough to suggest that whatever lies beneath the man's facetious surface really is no laughing matter.
Suddenly aware of the shift in mood, he quietly clears his throat and grabs a pair of socks as though nothing is amiss. After all, although different from the blonde's brand of bluster, he doesn't at all lack in bravado. Why, it's a cornerstone of his facade of strutting ego. That sardonic tone is a marvel of engineering. "Do I look like a creature of comfort?" The somewhat spartan outlook, however, isn't for show. Hard lives don't make soft people. "You're the investigative journalist. You tell me why I would get dubbed such a thing. Figure that out," he says, putting on one sock, his back to the locker wall and a baiting smile to the reporter, "and maybe I'll tell you how it all backfired." Unlike other members of the Air Wing, Bootstrap actually is proud of his callsign.
When his gaze hardens, Sawyer does the unthinkable. She actually flinches. It's just a bare little tick around her eyes, but in the proximity it's no doubt noticeable. As if realizing her blunder, or perhaps just out of some instinct to cover up her own flash of weakness, she turns away and starts retreating towards her own little bubble of personal space. "No, no you don't." Trask could never be accused of being soft. "You do realize I'm in good with your CAG, don't you? Callsigns are easy enough to ferret out, but sometimes a girl likes to go straight to the source." The journalist rolls her shoulders, as if aware they were starting to bunch up around her ears out of tension. "I'll be holding you to that maybe."
The flinch might have registered, if the incremental subsiding of the tension surrounding Kal is an indication. Just like an animal backed into a corner, really, except his growling usually takes the form of a smartass attitude. He is not one to pounce on a seeming vulnerability of another, however, if that person backs off, which Sawyer has. For now, anyway. He doesn't like his wounded bits poked, so he's willing to return the favor. The threat of going to the CAG, evidently, is no threat. "You do realize that those stories aren't listed in our personnel files, right?" Droll. So droll. Amused, nonetheless. On goes the other sock.
Sawyer mmms. "You'd be surprised what I have access to. Official or unofficial. And while it might not be written down anywhere, callsigns and the origin thereof are usually known by the CAG. If they meant nothing to her, she'd probably see about issuing a new one. And probably one less kind. So, until that time, I'll have to work merely off conjecture." She pulls a chair out at the central table, lifting one foot to rest on the opposing knee while she fiddles with the thin strap holding her heel on. "You're Taurian. So…hmm." She continues to think out loud, while her expensive shoe hits the deck with a dull thud and she starts to massage her poor abused foot. "You…pulled yourself up by the bootstraps? You're so bad ass that you would or have eaten your own boot leather?"
Duty green cargo pants are next to be retrieved from his main storage, but they aren't worn. Neatly folded, they, along with his boots, are placed atop the foot locker at the foot of Bootstrap's bed, which is a task he's tall enough to do without needing the ladder. "By the time I could afford leather, I was already eatin' on the military's cubits." No less true despite the cheeky delivery. Also, no comment about the other theories.
"I shall let the record reflect that Kal Trask could not afford leather until such a time as he was under the commission and employ of the united Colonial Navy. So noted." Sawyer flicks her gaze up to watch him tuck his remaining clothes inside his bunk instead of donning them. "Nap time?" You have to work off assumptions when you don't have a whole lot more to go with. Meanwhile, her other shoe joins the second and she repeats the knead of her fingers into the sole of her foot.
"It'd be easier to note what I could afford before I enlisted. I guess no one likes readin' a blank page, though." Before he closes and locks his locker, he drains a bottle of water stashed there down from the 3/4 mark to half-full. Dainty flower that he is not, the ECO wipes the back of his left hand across his mouth, and returns the item. "Only if you don't feel like givin' me a blowjob," Trask wryly replies about nap time. Even so, he's now climbing into his bunk, flashing an impish smile before vanishing behind the curtain.
"Sorry, but a girl's got an image to maintain." Sawyer mutters more than really retorts to Trask, a funky moment of inner reflection or some shit. "Sleep well." That, at least, is pitched a little louder as she collects up her shoes and goes to stow them in her locker, selecting another pair and another suit from the storage. With him to his nap, she's exits quietly, going back to her own corner of the working world, it seems.