| Skeletons |
| Summary: | Everyone has them in their closet; Sawyer and Cora expose some of their own. |
| Date: | 11 December 2041 |
| Related Logs: | Ancient, if any. |
| Players: |
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| Colonial Pete's |
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| Colonial Pete's is the long-awaited successor to Kythera's Aquarian Pete's, though this version is more bar than strip club. Not that there aren't any strippers here, in fact there's even a raised platform complete with pole built just for them. The majority of the room, however, is dominated by mis-matched tables and chairs and a long bar. Lighting is haphazard, the harsh fluorescents that came with the place usually left off in favor of lower lighting from scavenged lamps and even a bit of neon rustled up from somewhere and hung behind the bar. There's a pretty decent sound-system playing a wide variety of music, and a couple of low-tech bar games, like a mini pyramid hoop. There are always a few burly-looking guys around to keep an eye on rowdy patrons, and especially to guard the doors to the back rooms, where the stills are kept along with (rumors say) a few private alcoves for those willing to pay extra for one-on-one time with the girls. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #288 |
It's a new novelty, maybe that explains the flux of people in Colonial Pete's this evening. That and scantily clad ladies. And booze. Certainly one of those things has drawn Sawyer to this place (though a memo on Command's desk has requested /against/ permanent relocation to the Elpis for the reporter). She's currently seated at the bar, arms folded on it's top and a pink neon light casting an odd pallor to her face. Wearing a pair of her marine-issued black cargos, she's also pulled on an old blue hoodie emblazoned with 'Clearwater Glideschool' on it. This is her version of incognito, it seems.
Being TACCO has its advantages, and apparently those include getting ones pick of supplies salvaged from various planets. Given that she came aboard from Leonis with essentially nothing, that's really the only way to explain the fact that Cora has somehow acquired jeans, boots, and a black v-neck t-shirt. Out of uniform is close enough for incognito to her, apparently, and she heads up to the bar, eyeing the selection as she waits for service. Sawyer gets a sidelong glance, and then she asks, "What is Clearwater Glideschool?"
Sawyer looks down at the blue material at the question from the familiar voice, studying the gold lettering from up upside-down. "I don't know. I'd say ask Sitka, but he's…ya know." She makes a bittersweet little smirk, then takes another draw of her cigarette, finger tapping the glass in front of her for a refill when the bartender comes by to fill Cora's order. "It must have been part of his trick flying yada yada. Tisiphone gave it to me after his death. It sort of meant something back then, but now it's one of the few non-business attire things in my possession. Unless I wanted to come to the bar in my pink pajamas." Maybe Sawyer's already in her cups, because she's being rather…open. Of all things. "Say, what's your middle name, Cora? Strikes me that I don't know much about you at all, beyond that first little 'interview' I gave you. And convincing the powers that be not to kill you. You're welcome, by the way." When her drink gets topped off, she downs it in one fail swoop. GULP.
"Ah," Cora replies with a slow nod. She orders her drink and then turns back to reply, "That explains it. Tisiphone had a shirt that had that on it, too." As for pajamas vs business attire, she lifts a brow. "There's been plenty of scavenging you know, I'm sure you could've got your hands on something else. Not like I came aboard with this, after all." She gestures down vaguely and then turns to accept her drink, which is actually two. One she drains in a gulp, the second she sips, leaning against the bar. Brows rise and then narrow at Sawyer, who she eyes for a moment. "From what I know now of the powers that be, there's no way they were going to kill me right off. Tillman wouldn't even shoot one he knew for sure was a cylon." She takes another long swig and then adds, "And my middle name is Andromeda. What's yours?"
"Oh, I had jeans and the like. I just donated them all when the first survivors were brought on board. Tennis shoes…everything. I figure those people deserved to be more comfortable than I did, so I kept the heels." Sawyer makes a fist, pressing it to her lips and giving a little cough against the burn that's rising in her throat from the last shot. Waving off another for the time being, Sawyer puts her palm over the top of her glass. "Oh, I'm not talking about Tillman. Once you made it back to the ship you were scott-free beyond the whole me being assigned to babysit you in case your head started to spin and you happened to puke green or something." A pause. "Ester."
"I'd complain about being left out of that donation, but you did lend me that t-shirt, at least," Cora recalls, taking another sip of liquor. It doesn't seem to bother her at all. As for her safety down on Leonis, she scoffs quietly. "Well, luckily Tis and Trask weren't in charge, so I'm pretty sure I was safe enough there, too. Hells, they didn't even care if I was a cylon or not, being Caprican was enough grounds for execution on the spot." She drinks again and repeats, "Ester." There's a beat and then, "Really?"
"Yeah, it's a family name. Andromeda is far better, I think I'm steal it." Sawyer crooks her finger at the bartender, beckoning him forward to refill her drink when just a second ago she waved him off. Gotta keep him on his toes, afterall. "Well, Cora Andromeda Nikephoros, I'm glad you made the cut. Or…didn't get cut. Whichever." A pack of cigarettes is slide closer, and Sawyer shakes out a thin black papered stick with a fine silver band at the filter. "You never did give that t-shirt back," the reporter muses.
"Makes no difference to me, it's not as if I go flashing it around," Cora replies of her middle name. She holds her glass out for a refill as well, and drinks a little more deeply this time before glancing down at the cigarettes. "Different," she remarks, reaching for her own pack, a random Aerilonian brand. "It was the only piece of civilian clothing I had for months," she replies, "But if you really want it back I can return it." Another sip of liquor, and she slides up onto the stool finally, feet hooked beneath her as she leans against the bar.
Sawyer offers one of the fumarella sticks to Cora, "Here. Smoke one of these. Not sure why I was saving them, every day we're alive is a special occasion, right?" She quiets down long enough to light her own from a thin silver lighter that has a flip-open lid. There's a familiar, comforting snick as she clicks it open and grind as she flicks the flint wheel. "Nah, keep it. Something to remember me by. Consider it my version of a Clearwater Glideschool sweatshirt."
Cora removes the standard filter from between her lips and tucks it back into the box, taking one from the box Sawyer offers over. "Thanks," she replies, leaning over to get a light for herself and then back to exhale smoke at the ceiling. She snorts faintly at the comparison to the Clearwater shirts and shakes her head. "Why did she give it to you?" she asks, "Why didn't she keep it for herself?"
Sawyer keeps the flame alive for Cora, before extinguishing it with it's own cover. She turns the thing over a few times in her palm, before tossing it to the bar's top with a clatter. "Before…" Sawyer stops, tilting her head as if unsure how or if she should continue. Cigarette gets shifted aside to take another drink of the clear liquid, but this time she sips. Liquid courage, maybe? "Well, let's just say I have horrible taste in men. Dirty, nasty on-the-floor-of-the-dark-room-taste-in-men." She hoists her glass in a silent toast to the man and the memory, before taking another drink.
Cora drinks and smokes with practiced ease, juggling glass and cigarette without a second thought. She doesn't choke at Sawyer's admission, but brows rise and then draw together. "And so she gave you his sweatshirt? I'd have expected her to cut your throat."
"It was well before the two of them got together, or at least…I think it was well before." Sawyer's forehead wrinkles together into a deep furrow in the middle with the thought. "Anyways, I believe she had an inkling before we spoke about it. I know Evandreus knew. Two ships passing in the night sort of thing, but Ibrahim wrapped me up in this stupid sweatshirt one bad evening and…well it was the first honest kindness I was show on Cerberus, that's all. So she let me keep it."
"Still," Cora replies with a little shake of her head and another sip of liquor, "I never would have guessed she'd take it so well." She smokes thoughtfully, exhaling towards the ceiling, head tipped back for a long moment. Afterwards, she nods, shoulders lifting in a bit of a shrug. "I see," she replies simply, "Nice of her."
"Well, he was dead and she apparently wasn't long for the world anyways, so why not make an old gal happy?" Sawyer shrugs, apparently through analyzing a dead woman's motives. "So, now you know my shameful little secret. Who have you shagged since we pulled you off planet?" The reporter watches the TACCO over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip of her drink. Feel the burn."
"I suppose there was that," Cora concedes, draining the rest of her drink. She leans a little further over the bar on her elbows until she catches the bartender's eye and gets him to come her way for a refill. The reporter's question draws a brief note of laughter. "I hate the word 'shagged'," she remarks, sitting back and drinking deeply. "Off the record? O'Hare, marine intel. But really, that's your only shameful little secret? I expected something juicier."
Sawyer tsks. "You should have made sure I agreed to off the record before you spilled. I thought you would be wise to my tricks by now." There's a quick wink, ensuring that Sawyer is indeed kidding. Hopefully. "I'm not quite sure what else you're looking for here. I hadn't frakked anyone since, haven't broken an really big laws. If you can top dirty one night stand where the ass can't even look you in the eye when he's zipping up and skittering out…I'd love to hear it."
"You're not going to remember this tomorrow anyway," Cora retorts, smiling crookedly. She takes another drink, and shrugs, "I don't know, you're a reporter." As if that explains everything. She takes a long drag and then shrugs, "We frakked on his desk and then he left a stuffed bear on my bed a couple days later, and I can barely make eye contact since, how's that?"
"So it's you with the hang-up's? Well, more power to you, sister. I have to admit, the stuffed bear is a little fru-fru and fifth grade to me. Maybe he should have gone with something more grown-up, like condoms and a fifth of whiskey." Kidding? Maybe. "But who am I to judge about courtship rituals. I don't think I've ever grown out of the playground mentality of pulling pigtails and Aquarian burns."
"Hang-ups?" Cora sounds incredulous and a little amused, shaking her head as she replies, "It's just the bear that's off-putting. I can't help but imagine he's secretly a twelve year old in disguise, or something. It taints the whole experience. And I mean, really." She turns a dry look on the reporter, "How could anyone who has met me more than once think I'm that sort of girl?" She shakes her head a little and drinks deeply, clearly baffled.
Sawyer leans back from the bar slightly, eyes closing partially as she makes sure the momentum of her movement isn't going to send her toppling to the floor. Nope, she still has her center of balance. Score, that means she can drink a bit more. "You know what I'd do? Decapitate the damn thing, leave it on /his/ bunk with a note to man up. So tell me…" Sawyer's sentence gets split by another drag of her cigarette. "…what kind of woman /are/ you, then?"
Cora snorts and nods, "I considered something like that. I donated it to the hangar kids instead." She seems a little bemused by that, as if she's not entirely sure what prompted her to make that choice. She takes another drink, and then laughs at that question. "I don't know, Sawyer, why don't you take a guess?"
Sawyer muses over this, taking her sweet time about forming any opinion. Maybe it takes a while for cognitive sense to weave through all the alcohol that's starting to soak in her brain. "Well. Clearly, you're a no nonsense woman. You want what you want when you want it, without all the pomp and circumstance. I don't imagine you're much into foreplay as it's a waste of valuable time, but I bet you could be convinced to snuggle in the lazy hours of the early morning. You want a mature sexual relationship. Should the man use the word 'boobies' or try to juggle them, he'd be handed his clothes and kicked out of bed. Romantic overtures to you are going to be practical, like a new pair of boots. But deep down, I bet you go gooey at weddings."
Cora lifts a brow and waits until Sawyer's finished painting a picture of the Cora that exists in her mind. "A little focused on sex tonight, huh?" she jibes, and then shakes her head. "I don't go gooey at weddings, sorry. They can be fun, and I understand why other people feel so strongly about them, but…" she shrugs, "Not for me."
"Yeah, who am I kidding. I was talking about myself." Payment is hard to consider when evening up one's tab, as the worth of paper cubits is all relative. Still, Sawyer slips bills out of the kangaroo pouch of her sweatshirt, along with a bar of chocolate to 'sweeten' the deal as some sort of tip perhaps. "I better get back to Cerberus before they figure out a reason to keep me off that damn boat."
"I figured," Cora replies, lips curving into a brief, faint hint of a crooked smile. She watches the reporter count out her bill, and then nods, not making any move to get up off her stool. "Good night, Sawyer," she replies, "See you around."
Sawyer just gives a little smile as she slips from the stool, testing her footing before firmly putting her weight on them. Can't be too safe, when it's hard to say how many you put back. "Yeah well, what can I say." With that, she reaches out and gives Cora's hair a little tug before slipping off to catch the next shuttle back.